


To Belong

by TheGoodThings



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drug Use, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-18 03:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodThings/pseuds/TheGoodThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John slowly swiveled to face the man – Sherlock – slumped on the ground struggling to remove his coat. God, was he high right now? “No.” John exhaled slowly, struggling to keep his voice steady and slow, “Sorry, Sherlock’s in a bit of trouble.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strays in the Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John slowly swiveled to face the man – Sherlock – slumped on the ground struggling to remove his coat. God, was he high right now? “No.” John exhaled slowly, struggling to keep his voice steady and slow, “Sorry, Sherlock’s in a bit of trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

John was certain these late nights were going to be the death of him. The cold, bitter brown liquid he just polished off was at least the fourth refill of coffee since he sat down hours earlier. He glared blearily at the dregs clinging to the bottom of the paper cup before he set it aside and drove his now free fingers through his already tousled hair – he was in desperate need of a trim. He scrubbed a hand over exhausted eyes and hunched over the book laid out in front of him, attempting to refocus on the printed diagrams, but the text was nothing but one big blurry blob of nonsense. It was time to go home.

He flipped the textbook shut and leaned back, body stretching over the stiff library chair. His last – biggest – exam was in two days and he felt no more prepared than he had four, no, _six_ hours ago. John grimaced as he double-checked the digital clock on his phone. _Definitely_ time to go home.

He packed up the _Atlas of Human Anatomy_ as well as his scattered notes into the black hole that was his backpack. He slung the thread barren thing – its days numbered – over his shoulder and headed for the exit. God, that reminded him. The Christmas holidays were closing in and he needed to ask for additional shifts at the coffee shop. Anything to bloat his meager income; a new bag was just one on a grand list of things John needed. 

The night air kicked John out of his tired musings the moment he cracked the library door open. He wasn’t exactly dressed for the temperature drop and the crisp air bit through his thin coat no matter how close he wrapped it around himself. His fingers curled into jacket pockets and his shoulders rolled in an attempt to clear the ache that had built through hours stooped in old library chairs. There was nothing for it, better just to toughen up and get home quick, so John steeled his resolve and began to walk.

Most of the buildings he passed were dark now and the usually crowded pavements were empty. In an effort to save money, he opted to rent a flat with roommates instead of taking residence in the dorms. Back when he was just starting university he'd been lucky to stumble into Mike Stamford in his quest for a cheap room; John was a stranger to London, and his gender really didn't help – not everyone was exactly eager to bunk with an alpha they didn’t know. Not when Alphas tended to be territorial and violent when angry. 

It had been a year and a half since he moved in and the four of them somehow managed to survive each other, not that there weren’t the occasional tiffs. The flat wasn’t exactly grand in size and privacy was a struggle sometimes. In fact, John was looking forward to having the flat alone this Christmas. Come the end of exams he would be the only one not traveling for holiday. _Perfect_.

John’s lips twitched into a quick grin at the thought. Mike was kind enough to offer an invitation to his parent’s for Christmas dinner after John mentioned he was staying in for the holidays, but John had politely declined. He’d as little interest intruding on another family’s Christmas as he’d in intruding on his own. Mike had taken it in stride and promptly announced they would all have a farewell night at the pub once exams were over, and didn’t that sound grand? Something to put the long semester behind him.

A brisk wind picked up around him, his shoulders hunched against it and the weight of the weathered bag shifted uncomfortably against his back. These last few months hadn’t been completely terrible, admittedly. His grades were decent – better than decent – and he just needed a good result on this last exam to finish the semester with honors. Yet, there were several long years still ahead of him now – this future he had mapped out for himself felt like a mountain looming in front of him. He knew he wanted to help people, he wanted to save lives. He knew the challenges coming into uni, but regardless, the cost of it alone was –

John’s thoughts shuttered to a halt as hushed voices reached his ears: low, but harsh and rough. His gaze lifted to the empty street in front of him, shifting from one side to the other until they settled on the gap between two darkened buildings. The sounds were coming from the alley in between and John’s steps slowed while he strained to listen. 

Only the street lights and shop windows lit the road, leaving the alleyway in shadows; if he walked across the entrance, he’d be a sitting duck for thugs waiting to mug hapless, sleep-deprived medical students. Were they muggers? Not very good ones, making so much noise like they were. He thought maybe it was a drug deal, but this was hardly the prime location. The closer John crept the clearer the voices became, but all he could discern so far was that there were two of them, and they didn’t sound like they were playing nice. He could hear scuffling now, someone shoved someone else, stumbled steps dragged along the concrete. John pressed his back against the bricked corner and tilted his head towards the opening, hoping to see more. Maybe they weren’t facing the entrance and he could walk by unnoticed? But it sounded as if someone was in trouble.

The smell struck him so sudden that John’s knees nearly buckled from under him. _Omega_. His nostrils flared, his eyes widened, and his entire body was suddenly drumming with alpha anticipation. It was an omega in the beginnings of a heat. 

The smell drifted from alleyway in waves. John’s fingers curled into fists as a mantra of dread swarmed between his ears – his body buzzed with a need to _fuck_ and his trousers were suddenly too tight. Hissing out a breath between his teeth, John tried to calm the lust that was steamrolling his logic, there was something wrong: he was picking up the scents of another alpha. Gods, what had he stumbled into? This sort of thing was illegal – and it didn’t sound consensual. 

John gathered up his resolve and lurched forward without a second thought to the danger. The lights were at his back as he stepped into the alley, eyes squinting at the shadows. He couldn’t pinpoint anyone in the dark, but he could _smell_ them, one as heavenly as the other one hellish. 

“Enough!” He shouted into the dark, focus turning quickly to two shadows that jumped at the sudden noise. Two men, John could barely see now, one pressing the other against the mildewed brickwork. John's march didn't falter until he was close enough to present an obvious threat. Neither had a weapon John could spot, the omega was shoved against the wall and he wasn’t fighting back at this point – whatever protests John had heard outside the alley had ended with his appearance. The omega's scent saturated the air here and his head was slumped back against the brick. Light from the street barely reached the three of them now, but John could see dark curls a striking counter to the pale face it framed. 

From the moment he laid eyes on that shadowed face, John ached to touch, to run his fingers through that hair, to slide them down and – John’s gaze turned down to the omega’s broad chest, his coat had been shoved back, his shirt forced up, and the offending alpha’s hand’s were frozen against his pale skin at the curve of his hip – pinning the omega with fingers stuffed down trousers. No. No, that shouldn’t be happening. John let out a threatening growl, his scorching gaze focused once again on the looming alpha.

“This isn’t none of your business,” The man swung around to face John, one hand still pressed into omega flesh. He stepped between John and the helpless omega and John got a better look at the guy, he was tall – taller than John – but gaunt with an unnaturally hollowed face and stringy brown hair. Drug addict? Diseased? Homeless? All the more reason to remove him as a threat – this was so obviously _not_ consensual. 

“He isn’t any of your business, either,” John must not have appeared very threatening in his thin coat, bookbag still slung over one shoulder, but he was all too ready to fight the bastard off. His lips curled back, baring his teeth at the man, “Get away from him!”

The alpha sneered back, sunken eyes glazed with lust flickering between the omega and John as his tongue darted out, licking nervously at dry lips. The man’s hesitation was clear as day. He was a good twenty years John’s senior, and looked too lanky to be a real threat and maybe he knew that. Maybe he was smart enough not to fight.

“I’ll snap your bloody neck,” John bit out between clenched teeth, he was surprised at his own fierce words, but they kept coming. “Wouldn’t be hard. Maybe I’ll break your legs, let you drag yourself home.” As he spoke he took another step and this time the man retreated in kind, the words enough to drive him from his claim. With the next step John took, the man turned and ran.

“Fuck it, you can have him,” the man yelled in retreat and John only allowed himself to relax when the man was out of sight. God what was he thinking, that man could have had a knife, or something worse, and yet he was disappointed; his blood was singing. He would have won that – he’d have proven himself better for his claim. His fingers ached as he unclenched his fists and his eyes snapped back to the omega. _Right. More important matters_.

The omega man had slid down the wall while John was chasing off the alpha, his head was tilted back now, exposing a long column of neck and his chest heaved in deep gulps of breath as he writhed and squirmed. He was unequivocally beautiful, and he smelled of paradise.

“ _Amazing_ ,” John whimpered, his own cracked voice shook him from his revelry and his words caught up to him. Shit, he was in trouble here. He bit down on his tongue and stepped back from the vulnerable omega, “Is there someone you can call? Anyone that can get you somewhere safe?” John tried, hoping the man was coherent enough to get himself help.

A deep, shameless moan resonated through the alley as long, pale fingers worked down the omega’s thigh. “Hot, I need..” The man’s voice dripped out like syrup, deep and desperate, and John could feel his cock throb in sympathy.

“Y-yeah,” John muttered, tongue darting out to wet dry lips, teeth biting at his lower while he tried to think. “You’ve got to have a phone, come on.” John edged forward, eyes darting one way then the other to ensure they were still alone before he crouched over the omega and reached for his jacket pockets. As he dug, the omega tilted forward, trembling fingers digging into John’s coat to latch on. The icy air was suddenly entirely too hot as a sultry breath caressed his bare neck.

“You smell nice,” The deep, mesmerizing voice rumbled centimeters from his ear; a warm wetness swiped across John’s prickled skin.

“Oh Christ!” John lurched into reverse, jerking away from the omega and nearly tumbled onto his own arse. His fingers held tight around the phone he’d ripped from the omega’s pocket and he stumbled to a stand, away from the omega’s reach. Those pale eyes lifted to his and suddenly John felt pinned where he stood. Suddenly, those eyes were bright and clear as they darted over him, piercing down to his very soul, and John was helpless to stop it. As soon as it began the moment passed, the omega’s eyes flickered, then closed as he moaned his discomfort. John didn’t know what to do, his mind buzzing with static. He wanted, so badly, but there was a man in there, beyond the desperate hunger. He saw it in that brief moment of clarity. John could run? No, he couldn’t leave this man here.. wanting.

“Please...” The sultry voice begged, shifting, legs spreading, presenting to John. “It hurts. I need you. Your cock.”

John could. He could _so_ easily, that was the problem. His eyes squeezed shut and he struggled to turn around. “No. No, no, no, no,” The words came quick as his focus shot down to the mobile. He was better than this, than his base desires. He quickly scrolling through the phone book, “You’re not in your right mind and fuck... neither am I,” his gaze flickered over the contacts, but no names stood out – no hints to who could save them both. Instead, he went to last called (Lestrade, it so vaguely labelled) and jabbed the redial button.

As he pulled the phone to his ear, he took in a deep breath to try and calm his nerves, it did little when all he could smell was the fog of want floating off the omega. God help him. Nothing prepared him for this, “Pick up, god damned you..”

“Sherlock?” A voice came over the line after four rings, groggy and a bit miffed. Lestrade, he assumed, “Please, don’t tell me you’re high again.”

The first thing that went through John’s mind was _‘Sherlock? Who names a kid ‘Sherlock’?’_

The second was _‘Oh shit, he’s an addict.’_

John slowly swiveled to face the man – Sherlock – slumped on the ground struggling to remove his coat. God, was he high right now? “No.” John exhaled slowly, struggling to keep his voice steady and slow, “Sorry, Sherlock’s in a bit of trouble.”

“What? Who is this?” Lestrade snapped, he sounded wide awake and suspicious now. “Sherlock alright?”

“He's fine,” John answered, eyes skittering between alley entrances once again and, once again, they were alone. “He was having a bit of a row, but don’t worry, I broke it up. He’s... he’s a bit compromised. He’s gone into – he’s... well, he’s in heat.”

“Shit,” Lestrade spat out, his voice strained, “Where are you?”

John glanced toward the mouth of the alley. What street was he on again? Fuck, he took this road every day, why couldn’t he remember? His eyes flickered back to Sherlock; the man was successful in removing his coat, but now he was staring fervently at John while he attempted to strip his already torn shirt. John swallowed thickly. “James Street.”

There was a groan and a curse on the other side of the line, “He lives two roads away from there. Can you get him back yourself? I’m already on my way. I can text the address.”

John’s brow furrowed as he watched Sherlock. Had he been on his way home when he was jumped? What the hell was he doing out in the first place if he'd known his heat was coming? Shit. John squeezed his eyes shut, “Yeah. Yeah, I can get him there. Just hurry?”

“Call if anything happens,” There was a pause before the line dropped off and John suddenly felt like an idiot. Why hadn't he told Lestrade the truth? He was an alpha and he was a danger to Sherlock, he should just walk away now – no, he should call Lestrade back and tell him to come get Sherlock himself. If he didn't, John could do something he and Sherlock would both regret… in a day or two. The way he was staring at John, it was becoming harder and harder to think that was such a bad idea.

He couldn't leave – other alphas would come. Someone else would claim him before he got to safety. _NO_. John snarled out into the cold air. No one else could have him! The phone buzzed at him and his eyes jerked down, thank _fuck_ the address was close.

“Come on,” John snapped out, his gaze roaming over Sherlock once more. _Sherlock_. What a weird name, it seemed to fit the man in front of him though. The tall, dark haired man with eyes that smoldered with heat and maybe whatever drugs he might have in his system. A drug addict. Unbelievable. 

“Come on,” He just had to focus on getting Sherlock on his feet and back home. Once they started moving, everything would become easier, so he crouched down in front of Sherlock and tugged Sherlock's shirt back into place from where Sherlock had almost managed to get it off. “Keep that on. You'll catch something, otherwise.” John warned, but it sounded hollow to his own ears as he snatched Sherlock’s jacket and wrapped a hand around the man's upper arm. Sherlock’s skin burned under his cold fingers and John tried to ignore the whined protests as the omega was wrenched awkwardly to his feet. The man was _tall_. He loomed, then stumbled and slumped against John’s shorter frame, his head buried against John’s neck. His breath was hot and John staunchly ignored what that did to his already aching manhood. With a strained grunt, John dragged Sherlock from the alley and back into the light of the deserted street.

This was a test of his will, John decided. Being so close to Sherlock now, John no longer doubted the power omega’s scent wielded over alphas like John. He'd had never been near an omega in heat before – days before, or days after were much more common. In school, it was easy to sniff out the omegas who were skirting the edge and sometimes the professors would have to pull them out of class but it never turned into _this_ , a mistake of waiting too late, getting caught exposed and vulnerable… he dated omega’s, one in secondary and twice now in uni, but things never worked out. They all smelled lovely, unique in their own way, but none of them were like this, nothing was like _this_. This was positively overpowering and John wanted to drown.

Sherlock sank in his hold and John paused to readjust Sherlock’s weight, and in those moments he allowed himself to bask in the scent. His head tilted towards Sherlock and he breathed in a deep, searching breath. Sherlock smelled overpoweringly like sex, liquid sex that John could taste of if he opened his mouth, a smell that pulled at the deepest, most primal part of John. Sex and sweat and a bitter sweet pheromones thick like honey. Under that it smelled of cigarette smoke, rain and tea. There was something else there, some vague undertone of burning chemicals – was that the cocaine? He let out a huffing breath and Sherlock tried to crowd closer to him as if afraid John would pull away. “Relax,” he whispered, hand smoothing down Sherlock’s back and they walked again.

They couldn’t have arrived sooner. John thanked his lucky stars he had made it this far with the mad man clinging so tightly to him, whimpering in his ear. Everything was so much sharper around him, but his head was swimming with images and thoughts and _needs_ so much so that he could hardly remember what he was doing before Sherlock dropped into his lap.

John dragged Sherlock up to the door and gripped the knob. A sudden terror ripped through him when the door didn’t open. _Keys. Right. Keys._ John reminded himself to breath and he quickly fumbled with Sherlock’s coat pocket, fingers searching their depths. What he found first was decidedly _not_ keys. He tugged free the small bag of white powder and stared at it for a few uncomprehending seconds before he hissed, “This is terrible for you, Sherlock.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock’s hips rolling against him as his arms tightened around John's waist. Christ, he could feel the bulge pressing against him. Sherlock needed him.

“Fuck me,” The omega pleaded against the shell of John’s ear, the searing tongue sliding down his neck, ripping him open, pouring his insides onto the pavement, “I need you.”

“Oh god...” John let out a positively desperate moan, if he could just.. “No! NO!” He snapped, a hand shoving Sherlock back against the door, “No. Fuck. Yes, but no,” He choked, gaze dropping as the lean man whined at him, whispering pleas with those sinful lips.

John pocketed the white bag and searched the second pocket with shaking hands. Success! He tugged out a small ring of keys and picked the most likely candidate for the door, cursing that it took two shaky tries before the key sunk into the lock. He nearly sobbing with joy when it turned and the lock clicked open. _Point for John_. He elbowed the door open, pushed Sherlock inside, and slammed it again behind them both.

Sherlock pounced just as John managed to flick on the lights. The back of John’s head hit the door moments before Sherlock’s lips were on his in a mad rush of heat, tongue, and teeth. John groaned fervently as his hands pressed into Sherlock’s rolling hips. There was something, John tried to remember, something he was suppose to do. A low groan echoed between the two men, bubbling up from John’s chest. Shit. Sherlock's smell, it was _heaven_.

“Incredible,” He gasped as the kiss broke, dragging Sherlock closer as his hips thrust up, his cock pressed roughly against the protrusion in the other man's trousers. It was too much and not nearly enough, too many layers of fabric sat between them. The omega groaned out his dismay.

“You are _wonderful_ ,” John babbled as his nose ran along Sherlock’s jaw, sliding down his neck and stopping at the crook where that amazing smell was the strongest. “Beautiful, Sherlock, “ his tongue slid against hot skin to taste what he could smell, a hand pressed down to grope clumsily at the belt keeping the omega from him, “You’re gonna be mine. All mine. Your smell...”

Sherlock quivered and writhed against him, “Hurry, please,” that deep voice sobbed, rough and raw and getting worse with every passing second. John was doing this to him, and yes he liked that _very_ much.

John’s teeth were playing against the man’s collar bone when three heavy knocks echoed from behind him. Immediately he tensed, a deep territorial growl leaving him before reality came crashing down around him. Silence filled the room in the wake of that growl, and John jerked his head away from Sherlock. He was an _idiot_ , he was about to make the biggest mistake - he - Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. With sudden, painful clarity, John pushed the omega back and tore out the door before he could second guess his resolve. Fuck, he had almost–

“Oi!”

John jumped in surprise at the man standing in his way, body tensed as his lips parted and he took in a sharp breath. _Omega. Bonded. Safe._ The smell doused John’s panic and he released the lungful of air as he studied the stranger: older, hair just starting to grey, looked tired and angry – angry at John. John didn’t blame him.

“Sorry,” John rumbled low and rough, he coughed and tried again, “Sorry.” That sounded better. “I didn’t do... I didn’t do anything...” He winced at himself, “I’m the one who called you. Lestrade, right?”

He kept his gaze trained on the man; the omega was safe, but John still felt the need to guard the door against him and he hated that he couldn’t resist the urge. God, what would have happened if Lestrade had been an alpha? The man regarded him with a suspicious gaze and John could see the moment the man’s nostrils flared, he must smell Sherlock all over him – not sex though. Christ, if it had gotten that far, John would have to have been dragged away kicking and screaming.

“You brought him all the way?” Lestrade sounded dubious and John couldn’t blame him for that either.

“Yeah, wasn’t easy.” John shrugged a shoulder as nonchalant as he could manage. Both his and Lestrade’s gaze shot to the doorknob when it began to rattle. The heavy wood pulled open and John scrambled to grab onto the handle and slam it shut against Sherlock’s pull. He'd resisted once, but he was no superman – if that man got out again, his frayed resolve would snap in an instant.

“...Fine.” Lestrade shook his head, sounding tired again, “Thanks mate, but you really should go home. _Now_.” He sidestepped John and reached for the door, hand hovering over the doorknob and he paused, waiting. John was frozen as he stared at the handle, and Lestrade’s hand held over it, for far longer than was appropriate. _Let go_ , John commanded, _it's better this way_.

“Right,” John shook himself free of the stupor and took in a shaking breath. An ache coiled in his chest and every bit of him was screaming out in protest as he released the door, letting Lestrade take over. John immediately stepped passed the omega and onto the street, rapidly losing faith in his self-control as the door opened and closed behind him, the lock clicking soundly in place. John looked back at the door, but there was nothing to see. Sherlock was safe and he felt like shit.

 _Better this way_. John took his first clean gulp of air and tried to clear his head while turning to march on. Each step hurt a little bit less than the last.

When John finally reached his flat ten minutes later, he was eternally glad that all the lights were out. Immediately he fled to the bathroom and stripped himself of his clothes, frantic to get away from the scent. His cock had ached all the way home and showed no signs of fading yet, it stuck out red and swollen with the base of it puffing out more than John ever remembered it capable. It didn’t help that Sherlock's smell rolled off his skin as if had seeped into every single pore. _Maddening_. He turned the cold up full blast and dove under the spray. The action almost brought a scream from his lungs, had they not seized in shock.

The glacial cold chased away the need and lust and his shower gel washed away the last of Sherlock from his skin. His cock gradually deflated against the vicious attack, but John held out no hope that the memory of the night was going to be so easy to eradicate.

He stepped out of the shower fifteen minutes later feeling cold, miserable, and completely drained of energy. Even before he crossed the alley he'd been exhausted, but now he was certain he was going to die if he didn’t find his bed soon. Shivering and dressed only in a towel, John snatched his clothes and trudged back his room. The clothes would need to be washed, but for now he grabbed a bin bag and stuffed them inside before his cock got any more ideas from the lingering scent. He tried to hurry, but his fingers paused when he felt the phone in a pocket of his compromised coat.

He quickly shifted the coat around and went to grab for it, his gaze locked on his hand when he tugged out two unexpected items. The plastic bag of white powder and Sherlock’s phone sat staring back at him. He groaned in misery as he dropped the items on his bedside table and stuffed the coat deeper into the bag than necessary. He tied it off, tossed it in his closet, and finally crawled into his bed. 

There was comfort in a nest that smelled so completely John and nothing like any miserable, unobtainable omega. He curled up under the duvet and swallowed down the hollow ache rolling through his unfulfilled, exhausted body. He knew he would feel better after some sleep, so he took comfort in his own familiar scent and pushed Sherlock out of his head until morning – or, better yet, after the exam. Sherlock could wait.


	2. The Next Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that logic did nothing to console John when he woke up with his cock throbbing between his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

Apparently, Sherlock couldn’t wait long.

There was something about the tall, dark and – John admitted begrudgingly – beautiful bloke that stirred John’s imagination. He knew, logically, that it couldn’t be anything more than hormones and biology. He knew, logically, that Sherlock likely remembered little of John and wouldn’t be interested even if he did. He knew, _logically_ , that the only reason he dreamt of inky curls and long, pale legs was because he was under the influence of that divine scent. Honestly, John didn’t even _like_ men that way.

All that logic did nothing to console John when he woke up with his cock throbbing between his legs.

The alarm trilled angrily from his bedside table and without looking John knew it was five in the morning – an hour before he was due in at the coffee shop. _Fuck_. He threw an arm out, silencing the wretched noise-maker with a firm smack, then he rolled onto his back, his morning erection tented the sheets like a proud, obscene pole.

He brushed a hand through his wild hair while his eyes remained stubbornly closed; he needed to think all of this through and clear his head. He wasn’t going to _obsess_ over this. All night he'd dreamt of tantalising scents, of howling cries of pleasure, of sliding his swollen cock between wet thighs and fucking the tall, perfect man into the bed until he screamed John’s name. There was nothing polite about it. Nothing _civilized_ about it. John couldn’t feel ashamed of what happened in those dreams, nor could he bring himself to pretend he didn’t want every single part – he was bloody lucky he didn’t mess the bed in his sleep.

His eyes blinked open and he heaved a resigned groan. John's resolve had truly reached it’s limits and he wasn’t going to make it through the day without proper relief. Throwing the sheets back, he tilted his head to watch his hand take his manhood in a firm grip. Much to John's dismay, the pressure against his cock provided only the weakest relief. If anything, it made it all _worse_ ; he needed friction. Sliding down his shaft, his fingers probed at the slight swelling at its base – not so bad as yesterday, but certainly not his normal girth – John’s eyebrows drew together at the sight. His knot had swollen just enough to be apparent, ready to plug a waiting omega. The tissue there only expanded in response to an omega’s pheromones, just further proof that the night before was still hot on John’s mind.

Oh, who was he kidding? John didn’t need a knot to figure that out, he’d only need to close his eyes to see the omega again. Those bright eyes hidden in the shadows, staring up at him, _begging_ him. John’s hips rolled and he thrust up into his fist. He quickly began working himself towards blessed relief; all he needed was another chance to bend Sherlock over and take him completely. To thrust hard and deep until the man was clenching around his engorged knot, trapping them both until Sherlock had taken every bit of John’s seed.

“Oh, fuck,” John gasped, it was an embarrassingly short time before he was arching from the bed and spilling across his stomach. The relief flooded his system while his hand working his throbbing member through the orgasm, squeezing the swelling a its base. The relief was there, but it was hollow, _not enough_ and only reminded John of what he didn’t have. 

John winced as his suddenly hypersensitive cock softened under the attention of his fingers. He eased his hand away and left his arm to flop bonelessly against the bed. letting himself enjoy what little of the post-orgasmic bliss he could, his thoughts returned to the events of the previous night. As much as his genitals might have hated him for it, John was proud of his restraint. No omega deserved to be raped in the middle of an alley, no matter how idiotic they were for wandering around during a heat. Likewise, there were laws that placed responsibilities on both alpha and omega in cases like Sherlock’s. Responsibilities like monthly reparation owed to the omega – reparations that inflated if Sherlock ended up _pregnant_. Oh god, the very idea of a child was so horribly foreign – and with a drug addict?! His stomach twisted in terror at how close he had been to ruining his life. 

John had no idea why the guy was out there and he wasn't entirely sure he even wanted to know, especially after discovering the cocaine. It all could have ended horribly and John should just be happy he made it out relatively unscathed. 

Feeling somewhat better, he stretched out and grabbed the towel he’d abandoned the night before, cleaning himself up before finally dragging himself out of bed. 

* * *

Forty five minutes later, John was sliding behind the counter of The Vanilla Bean – a small-time coffee shop and John’s current place of part-time employment. It was a charming corner shop with a few old tables and chairs scattered about, half of them marred some sort of permanent coffee ring, and a telly playing in the corner. Molly, a sweet omega girl, was weaving between tables restocking the sweeteners when he came in and John gave a tired smile to his companion for the next several hours. 

“Morning, Molly,” he hummed as he began his usual morning ritual behind the bar. After six months, all of it became ritual. His flatmates had teased him about the job when he first accepted it – it hadn’t exactly been the exciting sort of work John had hoped for, but it was the first place to offer him a job and he'd grabbed it before anyone could change their mind. As it turned out, John was a quick study and managed fairly well in the service industry. He did enjoy the atmosphere and the smells that came with working a the Vanilla Bean, and it was a place he could retreat to when class became overwhelming.

“Hi, John,” Molly beaming at him. Always chipper in the morning, that one. “Long night last night?” She tilted her head while studying his, admittedly haggard, expression. He wanted to laugh at the question, it was the longest night he’d had in a while.

“Trying to catch up on revision,” John lied by omission and ignored the sympathetic smile she gave, turning his attention instead to the first customer trudging in for their morning pick-me-up.

Things began to flow as they always did after that, mostly. John wasn’t sure what effect the finals had on customer count, but the atmosphere felt a bit more tense than usual – in hindsight, it might have been John that was the tense one. It was easier, at least, to put the events of the night behind him while the current of customers remained steady through the early morning. When he ran out of things to roast, froth, ice, pour or refill, Molly was there to fill in the void with conversation John didn’t have to reply to, only hum and nod and smile at the right moments. By the time he clocked out at noon, John was so focused on his exam again that he had almost forgotten to mark himself down for extra hours. 

He jotted down his availability quickly, then retrieved his things from his locker. Slipping his jacket on and checking his phone for calls, none, he made his way out the back door. The sun was making a rare appearance over London and the temperature was much fairer than the night before, thank god. He cursed himself for not thinking to bring his study material to work – he always got more revision done at the library.

He was still lamenting his mistake when he heard hurried steps coming up behind him and his head swivelled to see Molly catching up to him.

“hi, John,” Molly gave a nervous smile as John stopped to wait for her. “I was just thinking we could, you know, walk together?” She asked, “Just to the bus stop?” her eyes skittered away from John to scan around the both of them.

He couldn’t help but grin at her. Molly was a sweet omega, but not the type for John – at most she made a decent acquaintance. Could he say friend? Maybe. They hadn’t done much talking outside of work and they didn’t exactly fit into the same circles. “Yeah, sure,” He shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on taking the bus, actually, but its on the way. I’ll walk with you to the stop.”

Molly nodded to John, almost relieved, as they began together “You alright?” John asked when she looked about again. Distracted, maybe?

“Oh, fine,” Molly answered quickly, her hand waving John off in a flighty wiggle, “I just like a bit of company and I saw you, so...” she trailed off with a shrug.

John nodded and let the question drop after a sidelong glance. She looked fine and had said so herself. They had fallen into a lull of conversation anyway, so John let his mind wander again. He had the whole afternoon to study before the last exam tomorrow, and once it was done, he could breathe. Perhaps it was better he stayed inside the flat tonight; he was sure that if he spent another all-nighter in the library, he’d just end up reminding himself of Sherlock.

 _Sherlock_.

John drew in a breath. “Molly, how soon can you tell that you’re about to go into heat?”

“What?” Molly swung her eyes back upon John, looking mildly horrified. John clenched his jaw, blush spreading across his cheeks. Oh god, what did he just ask?

“Sorry. I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t mean – you don’t have to answer...” He made a decent effort at staring a hole into a distant tree while the heated blush spread to his ears. Molly, poor, likely traumatised Molly was silent for a long moment, all the while John tried to work out what had prompted him to ask such a personal question. If anything crossed the 'friends' boundary, that was it.

“Why do you want to know?” Molly finally spoke, her voice quiet and curious this time. At least she didn’t sound upset.

“No, just – just forget it.” John shook his head, “I really shouldn’t have –”

“Well, if you're interested –” Molly said slowly, “I begin to notice about a day before anything starts to... change.”

John let out a low grumble, why the hell was he doing this to himself? “So... you would know. Not to go out, I mean?”

“John?” Molly turned and looked straight at him now. “Did... something happen?”

Oh, god. John had promised himself he would let this _go_. “Yeah. Last night. There was an omega.”

“In heat? Oh, John! What did you do?” Molly, bless her heart, was worried about the guy. John held up his hands, placating her anxiety.

“Its alright, I got him help. I just couldn’t figure out what he was doing out in the open in the first place. He should have known, right?” It didn’t make sense, after all. He wasn’t homeless, nor that far away from his flat. The drugs were the only safe assumption: too high to notice the change, too many poisons in the body to have a healthy cycle.

Molly maintained her uneasy look, but continued to step in time with John as she considered his words. She was chewing on her thumb as if out of habit. “I couldn’t say,” She finally glanced to John, “Maybe... he just didn’t sense it in time... or thought he had long enough to get home?” She offered blind reasons, there was always some small excuse when attacks like these get reported in the news. John could only nod in response.

“I’m glad,” Molly offered again, “I’m glad you were able to help him.”

John felt a small twitch of a smile jump across his expression, “Yeah. Me too.” What else could he say? He knew what she was implying. She was glad he hadn't attacked the omega like some savage animal.

They finished their walk in silence, and it was only a _little_ bit awkward and neither of them were going to point it out. He waited until he and Molly had finally parted ways before allowing himself a sigh of relief. _That could have gone better_. It was Sherlock again, stomping his way through John’s brain. He shook his head and made it a vow _not_ to think about the man for the remainder of the day.

John managed to break his vow only three separate times on his way home. If he somehow avoided a certain area where pheromones might still be lingering, well, that was because his detour was shorter anyway.

* * *

John let out a puff of air as he crossed into the living room of the small, four bedroom flat. Bill Murray lounged on the sofa as he passed by, watching some daytime rubbish on the telly they shared. John didn’t know how the man could stand the ratty old piece of crap sofa, it smelt absolutely awful. John mused over the idea of ditching it and replacing it with using milk crates while everyone was out for the holidays.

“John!” Bill’s bark turned John’s head as he passed, “Your damn phone keeps going off. Turn it off or I’ll chunk it out the window.” 

John snorted at the threat. Bill was the only other alpha in the flat share and John had been apprehensive about the loud and showy man when they were first introduced, yet they had somehow managed to become friends despite Bill’s constant strutting and John’s short temper. Partly due to their mutual respect for one another and their personal space; Bill would never go into his room or throw out John’s things, no matter how much he threatened.

His statement struck John as wrong and he paused halfway out of the room, giving Bill a considering glance. _Phone? My phone's in my... oh_. “Sorry, I’ll go put it on silent.” He waved off Bill’s returning grunt before heading up the stairs; he had forgotten all about the omega’s phone after last night. Just another thing John didn’t want to deal with.

He stepped into his bedroom and set his eyes on the imposing, glossy device beside his bed. _New model_. It sat so obviously out of place now, he wondered how he had missed it before he left that morning. Sitting right beside it was the small bag of white powder and John glowered at it. 

Choosing to ignore the bag for now, he picked up the phone, thumb swiping over the screen to unlock it. Maybe Lestrade was looking for it, because Sherlock certainly wouldn’t be. Not for another day at least. His eyes scanned over the messages lined up in his inbox – none from Lestrade, but there were several texts lamenting Sherlock’s disappearance from various other contacts. Even more were making propositions to meet up or – John stopped, suddenly feeling like he was invading the man’s privacy. He quickly mashed the power button and let the phone shut down before dropping the ghastly thing into the top drawer of his bedside table.

He’d just... return it in a few days. When it was safe. For now he could right another wrong. Picking up the plastic bag, John turned it in his hand. He certainly wasn’t going to return this, but he wasn’t going to hold onto it either. He tracked his way back down to the bathroom where he flushed the contents of the bag, washed it out, and dumped it in the bin. _There_. Like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, John felt better almost instantly.

He headed back up the stairs and closed himself off in his room, swiping his book-heavy bag up and dropping down onto the middle of his bed. It was time to focus. _One more day_. John turned his eyes in the direction of the omega’s phone one last time, wondering what the man might say when John showed up at his door. It wasn’t like he wanted anything from the guy, it seemed a bit rude to ask for a reward anyway: ‘yes, I saved your idiot arse, you owe me’. Horrid. He would like to make sure Sherlock was recovered and that there were no hard feelings, maybe he’d ask the guy out for a pint. This whole fiasco seemed like something to end with a drink and a good laugh.

John realised, quite suddenly, that he was becoming increasingly enamored with the idea of another meeting with the mysterious Sherlock. Maybe it was just closure he sought, or answers. Good or bad, he was inevitably to speak to the man behind the previous night’s madness. _Soon_ , John soothed his anticipation. Right now he needed to get through this last bloody exam.


	3. Finals and Second Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stepped back and regarded the man in front of him; he was nothing like the lusty, handsome omega from John's memories. In fact, the sight of him now did wonders in shattering the enchanted hold Sherlock unintentionally held over John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

For the rest of that afternoon, John kept his nose in the textbooks. The longer the hours wore on the more everything faded and meshed together, but John pressed deeper and deeper into his reviews until he was certain he could write an entire manuscript on the parasympathetic nervous system alone. He was determined be ready because he _knew_ he could score high marks, he'd worked too damn hard not to. That night, John fell asleep with his face buried in his dog-eared copy of _Principles and Practice of Medicine_ , dreaming of exam papers raining from the sky.

Yet after all the time John took to prepare for the bloody thing, the actual exam passed in a short blur of diagrams and discussions. He was so dazed by it all that once he'd turned in his paper to the invigilator and walked out of the lecture theatre, John couldn’t remember what exactly was on the test in the first place. He was fairly certain he had done well though, so he took the idea to heart and ended his semester on a high note. Disappointment could wait until results were posted online the following week.

The exams were finally over and done with, another semester under his belt. John swept through his shift at the coffee shop in high spirits and the smile he wore when greeting passing customers was a bit more genuine than it had been the previous week. The day developed with far less drama and woe than he'd feared it might and by the time he was packing to go home, John was thinking he might have made a big deal out of nothing after all.

On that thought, John checked the messages on his phone. The only one was from Mike: he and the others were already at the pub, the bastards couldn't wait for him to get home so he had to meet them there. John checked the time stamp – it had only been half an hour since he'd received it. He shook his head, pulled on his jumper, and headed out the back door of the shop.

The pub was a familiar stomping ground for John and his mates; being close to the flat had been a plus, but what he really liked was the warm atmosphere and the constant streaming of Sky Sports. His empty wallet haunted him even here, more times than he cared for John had played the responsible, sober one because he didn’t want to spend the money on the alcohol to get himself more than pleasantly buzzed. He put up a fuss sometimes, but he didn't mind as much as he made out: alcohol didn’t play well with the Watson family.

John cringed at that thought. Harry was still claiming she'd sobered up since the last time, when she’d managed to smash the second floor window and ruin the carpet of their parent’s home in one go, but that promise alone hadn't been enough to repair the rift that disaster and the fallout that followed had caused in their already fragile relationship. Dad never even pretended to stop.

So, drinking wasn’t something John did lightly. It was a vice, and it inevitably lead to guilt and bad memories. Every so often John thought it was alright to let go for a night, usually it was a decision he regretted.

He shook those thoughts out of his head when he stepped out of the cold air and into the warm light of the pub. Scrubbing the chill out of his hands, John let his attention wander of the room; the sound of the football on the oversized flat screen played marginally over the buzz of conversation rolling off the patrons. The pub was particularly heaving for a Friday night and John couldn't immediately see his friends – blasted height – so he squeezed his way to the overcrowded bar for a drink as his gaze roamed the tables he could see. 

When he reached the bar, he folded his arms cautiously over the sticky surface and signaled to the tender while his eyes drifted over to his left. _Oh, hello_. A smile brightened his expression. Sitting there, just one stool down, was a lovely red-haired woman. When she glanced his way, John could see soft blue eyes. “Hi,” John lifted a hand in a tiny wave when he had caught her eye – or rather when she caught him staring. “Come here often?” 

The pick-up was horrid, but the girl smiled at him regardless. _Good sign_ , John mused. “No, actually,” she waved her hand towards the entrance John came from, “My friend wanted a night out and I was roped in. This isn't usually my thing.”

“Then I'll have to thank your friend when they get here.” John gave her a sideways smile when he turned his attention to the full glass set in front of him. He fished out a fiver from his pocket and laid it down for the bartender, then took his pint then and moved down to the recently vacated bar stool beside the woman. Beta, John was close enough to pick out her scent from the background, “John Watson.”

“Sarah,” She said, her full attention on John now, “Sarah Sawyer. You go to the university?”

He enjoyed the pint making small talk with the girl at the bar – Sarah. He learned that she was in her third year of her MBBS, out celebrating for the same reasons John and his mates were: the end of a semester of hard work. Tomorrow, Sarah would be getting the train to her mother's in Brighton for the holidays, she wouldn't be back until January and had promised the night out with her friend. By the time said friend did show up (another beta with dark skin and wild, curly hair) and pulled Sarah’s attention, John was lamenting his bad luck and missed opportunity.

He ordered his second beer and let his thoughts wander back to his missing friends, but his musings were cut short when he heard a familiar, cheery voice.

“John, where've you been?” Mike thumped a hand against John's shoulder as he came up to the bar beside him, “We're in the back, usual table got snatched.” 

“Sorry, just got here,” John fibbed a bit as he pulled out his wallet to pay for the second round. “I'm coming now.” He laid down the crumpled note and climbed off the stool, and had only taken a few steps when Sarah was calling his attention again.

“John,” She smiled when he turned back and she fished out something to write on from her bag. He watched as she pulled out a notepad and scribbled down a number. _Fantastic_. “I'll be back on the third. Give me a call some time.” She ripped the paper, folded it in half, and passed it over to John with a coy smirk. 

“Of course,” he grinned as he pocketed the slip of paper, “Have a great break, Sarah.”

He and Mike made their way towards the back of the pub, Mike pressing his hand into John's shoulder the whole way. A great laugh tumbled out of the man, “My god, John, how the hell do you pull that off?”

John didn't bother to answer the man as he followed him back to the table. His expression turned neutral and his head ducked to cover his embarrassment, hoping Sarah hadn't seen the show Mike was putting on. John was definitely going to lose her interests if his arsehole mates made her feel like a random catch. 

Uni was full of woman, and many had turned John’s head. He’d always been a sucker for a pretty face and soft curves, but, while some of them had been fun, nothing ever lasted. His dedication belonged to his education, but there were other things, other problems, that kept any real connections from blooming. There were always reasons to call things off: no time between lectures, no money for dates, different goals in life, different expectations, different interests. He had heard as many excuses from his past partners as he'd used himself. 

Something seemed to click with Sarah though, John would definitely call her. He was already worrying over the number in his pocket, thinking it should be transferred it to his wallet for safekeeping, but as he reached for it again he heard Bill shouting at him.

“John! There you are!” Bill's voice boomed over the rabble of the bar and John started from his thoughts. Leaving the precious folded paper for now, he looked up to the man in the corner booth. With him sat the smaller, thinner Jack Miller – the last and the most passive of his flatmates; John raised his glass in greeting as he slid in beside the two of them. “Where the hell have you been?” His rowdy friend's voice had yet to return to acceptable levels.

“Found him flirting with another one,” Mike gossiped like a teenage girl. John glowered at him for it, but the effect was lost on the giddy beta. “Got her number and everything.” 

The three had a laugh and poked at John, but his unwillingness to play along put a stop to the teasing relatively quickly. The conversation, thankfully, moved to lighter things and John felt like he could relax again. 

The rest of the night was filled with talk of the semester they'd survived, the one coming up, and what they would all be doing during the break in between. Mike kept talking about his 'girl back home', while Bill complained about his brothers with increasing levels of vulgarities as the night wore on. Though John had considered splurging earlier, it really didn't seem worth it in the end, so he finished the night on three beers and helped the others drag Bill sputtering and cursing – the football game had turned sour and Bill wasn’t taking it well – from the bar and all the way home.

The next morning, John woke at seven only because he'd forgotten to turn off his alarm the day before. He had nowhere to be that day, timetabled lessons were over and he wasn't rota'd in at the shop, so he stretched out luxuriously under the warmed sheets and briefly considered the unfamiliar indulgence of sleeping in, though John quickly dismissed the idea. There were better things to do. 

He rolled onto his side with a groan, his gaze zeroing in on the top drawer of his side table. He'd miraculously managed to spend most of the night without the perplexing man marching around his head but now, in the early hours of a new day, John felt almost giddy with the idea of seeing Sherlock. It probably wasn't healthy, the almost obsession John had found himself in. He was desperate to know why the man had acted so idiotically, why he'd felt the need for a mid-heat stroll, why he was using – he felt that once he'd got answers the whole damn situation would stop plaguing him.

John grunted and climbed from the tangle of his sheets, quickly grabbing a change of clothes and fleeing to the bathroom before his mates could wake up and hog the hot water. 

After the shower, John headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on before digging up some (only just out of date) bread to shove in the toaster. The flat was quiet for the moment, but only because everyone was sleeping off their hangovers. Both Bill and Jack were due out in the afternoon and Mike the next day, so the flat would be all his soon.

He was thinking about Sherlock again when he sat down at the cluttered kitchen table to enjoy his jam and toast. Would his heat be over now? Would it be safe to visit today? It had been more than two days and heats generally lasted no more than a day and a half every month. Maybe he should double check the range, just in case.

He considered waiting until that afternoon to visit, just to be sure, though John didn't want to wait too long – Sherlock might just write off the phone John still had in his bedside table and get a new one. Could he? The phone was almost brand new. Was he the type who could afford new gadgets at the drop of a hat, or was it a special gift? John tried to remember what sort of vibe he'd gotten from the man or his flat, but all of it was a big blur. In the end, he gave up his inquiry with a sigh – just another question he needed an answer for.

Breakfast eaten and plates washed, John was on his way up the stairs to fetch his keys and a jumper for a morning walk when he heard his phone ringing. He quickened his step the rest of the way and grabbed the phone on the third ring, checking the name before hitting 'answer'. “Beth, is everything okay?” John answered as he moved to sit at the edge of his bed. Beth was the manager of the Vanilla Bean. Not John's favorite person in the world, but her calling always meant more hours.

“John, can you come to work today? Molly's called in sick and we're a bit short.” Beth was straight to the point, though there was an edge to her voice that told John he hadn't been the first one she had called. Good luck for him, then, he wasn't going to turn down an extra shift.

“Yeah, I've got nothing planned,” John smiled when he heard the huff of relief coming from the other side of the line. “Need me now?”

“If you don't mind,” Beth agreed quickly, “Her shift ends at twelve. See you soon.”

The call ended before John had the chance to add anything else. He got up and went to dress. He ended up making his bed too before he snatched his wallet, phone and keys from their various hiding places. After a second thought, John tugged Sherlock's phone out of the top drawer to bring as well. That way he could stop by on the way home.

Opting to take the bus instead of manoeuvring the innumerable tourists on foot, John ended up arriving at work only fifteen minutes after the call – much to his manager's relief . He dropped his things into his locker and tucked Sherlock to the back of his mind for just a few hours more.

The shift hadn't been half as bad as Beth seemed to worry it would be, though the woman always had a flair for the dramatics. By mid-morning, John found himself watching the clock as the minutes ticked by agonisingly slow. He made small talk to fill in the gaps between customers, finding out from Beth that Molly had called in sick quite suddenly that morning. Much to John's discomfort she strongly hinted that it was the girl's time of the month and he struggled to contain the rising blush in memory of the conversation he'd had with her only two days before.

John would be lying if he said he wasn't counting down the minutes of his last hour. All the anticipation was killing him, what exactly was he expecting from it all? He had no guarantee the man wouldn't just slam the door in his face. John grumbled at that thought, but it tapered his excitement as he fetched his things from his locker. Sherlock's phone the last thing he grabbed. Turning it over in his hand, he headed out the back door. Was all of this huffing and puffing really worth it? 

He wasn't some hormone-wrecked teenager crushing over a first love. Is that what omega's really did to alphas? He had heard stories all his life, studied it through school; it was part of the culture and history of the world. An omega’s hormones weren’t only for breeding, they were there to ensure an alpha would _stay_ and care for both them and whatever child was conceived between them. That was what the bond was for – a connection between alpha and omega that was completely chemical and very difficult to break (impossible without modern medical technology). He thought he'd understood it – he did, technically – but now that he'd experienced the lust of pheromones first hand he didn't know what to think. John didn’t _pine_ for addicts – he didn’t _pine_ for _men_. It would most likely be in everyone's best interest to just forget about the omega and toss the bloody phone – the damned bastard deserved it for his carelessness anyways. 

John looked down to the mobile still in his hand, held there in anticipation. Lord, he was a dog fetching a stick, hoping for a treat. _God damn it_. John let out a frustrated grunt and jammed the phone into his pocket. Fine, he would go to Sherlock and he would find out all he wanted to know, then he'd wash his hands of the infuriating mess.

The door John did remember, hell, the entire address was burned into his memory. He glanced over the outside of the building, then down either side of the pavement as he lingered nervously. That wasn’t like him. 

_Right, enough stalling_. With a steadying breath, he stepped up to the door and knocked, firm and quick, then he pulled the sleek phone from his pocket and turned it over in his hands. After a whole minute John was considering whether to knock again when he heard the lock turn. His gaze jumped up as door swung open and finally set upon the man who clogged his head for days.

Sherlock was a disaster. 

Standing in the doorway was a man utterly unlike the omega John had met in the alley; his posture was slumped and he was far too thin to be healthy. A black – silk? – dressing gown hung halfway off bare shoulders and laid undone over gray pyjama bottoms – which looked as if they should fit if he actually had any decent amount of body fat. Bags hung under pale drained eyes and haggard features were gaunt and strained under damp, inky locks. The black of his wet hair and silk dressing gown only seemed to intensify the almost transparent quality of his skin. In short: Sherlock was a complete and utter mess.

John stepped back and regarded the man in front of him; he was nothing like the lusty, handsome omega from John's memories. In fact, the sight of him now did wonders in shattering the enchanted hold Sherlock unintentionally held over John. 

Still trying to reconcile the now conflicting images of Sherlock, John missed the moment the man suddenly held out a long, spidery hand, fingers twitching just enough to come off as an unconscious action. 

John's gaze dropped to the hand, then back up to the man's foggy gaze again. What exactly was he doing? John was still staring when Sherlock heaved a put on sigh that sounded down right insulting while he propped himself against the door frame, all limbs and bony frames. “The phone,” The man's voice droned in a bored, rough tone. “You're here to return it.”

“Oh, right,” John started out of his thoughts. _Caught staring John_. He grumbled at himself as he dug out the phone and dropped it in the waiting hand. “Sorry, I accidentally nicked it off you the other night.” He let his hands drop as he waited; the gaunt man didn't reply, he didn't seem to even hear John as he turned on the phone. 

Now John was at a loss as he stood there before the silent, distracted man. Maybe he just wasn't welcome? “Well, I just wanted to give it back, I–” John looked up to the man's eyes again and stopped. Those pale – blue? No, there was green there too – eyes were staring into his own now, looking at him so intensely that John, for a moment, was back in the alley watching the heated omega staring up at him with those same, fascinating eyes. “I'm...” John was grasping at straws now, “John. John Watson.”

Sherlock's focused gaze fell over John, seeking out something specific? Whatever he was looking for, or whether he found it, John didn't know. The exchange was quick and it ended as Sherlock suddenly whirled around in a flash of twirling robe and stomped back into his flat. The door was left wide open behind him and John was left to play catch up. “Hey!” He stepped into the doorway, “You just left your door open!”

“Of course, John!” Came the annoyed response from somewhere inside the first floor flat. “Come in and shut it!”

 _What_? John stood there, confounded. Was Sherlock inviting him in? He eyed the door suspiciously.

“Quickly!” The bristly voice sounded edged with irritation now. _Impatient_. John's picture of the mysterious Sherlock was starting to become both clearer and very, very muddy.

He knew he would regret it, yet there he was stepping into the hall, closing the door as he went. Well, things weren’t exactly started the way John had expected them to, but maybe he was going to get the conversation he had hoped for after all. With the way things were going though, he wondered if he still needed the talk as much as he thought he had. The guy was just another junkie. The meeting in the alley had to be the result of a terrible addiction and nothing more. 

As much as John wanted to accept that answer, there was still something drawing him in, demanding some better explanation for what had happened between them. John hated it, he felt he was only going to be disappointed. Maybe he was disappointed already? He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, looking at Sherlock’s face now, it was a bit weird, alien almost – the exhaustion and strain wasn’t helping anything. Did he think the same sparks would fly between them, as they had in the alley? Of course not, there was no more hormones to induce those sparks.

Stepping through the hall and through an open door, what greeted him was grounds to expel Sherlock from whatever lease he had signed for the flat. The living area was in shambles. John felt he had to stop at the door for fear that any further and he'd step on something breakable. It wasn't just negligence, either. It was clear that someone – Sherlock – had gone absolutely mad in the room. There wasn't a clear spot on the floor and several pieces of furniture were overturned; John saw that a leg had been ripped from an upside down coffee table, but the leg itself was nowhere to be seen. There was a vase broken and scattered near his feet, painting shredded and an entire bookshelf content was strewn out in front of the fireplace. Judging by the ashy remains within the hearth, it seemed like several books hadn't come out lucky in the ordeal.

“Bad day?” John inquired as he let his attention return to the man sitting in the middle of the mess like the bloody eye of the storm, utterly unashamed. Sherlock had settled on the corner of a sofa that had been pulled away from the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest with bare feet snugly fit on the cushion, his complete focus now on the phone while his thumbs worked deftly over the touchscreen. Seeing him like this, he almost seemed young, younger than the age John had put him at in his mind – a few years John's senior. 

Sherlock did not reply to John's question.

Fine. John attempted to quell the frustration of being ignored. What was wrong with him that he was now so easy to ignore? What was wrong with Sherlock to ignore a stranger he’d just invited into his home? Standing a bit straighter, he explored the living room again, this time taking in a deep breath. There was a distinct 'Sherlock' smell that was undoubtedly omega, but the smell was not overpowering and intoxicating as it had been that night. At the moment, it was just pleasant and John sighed out the breath again. Well, he shouldn't just stand here like an idiot, he needed something to do. Tidying up was _not_ going to happen, so John opted for stepping over the mess towards the kitchen, “If you're going to ignore me, I'll just make myself some tea.” 

“Two sugars,” Came the drone from the sofa. John shot the man a brief, astounded glare over his shoulder. Oh, _now_ he speaks. His fingers clenched and unclenched until he lost the urge to snap back. On some level he was listening, though, and John took that to heart as he picked through the kitchen drawers. Several were ripped from their runners and shattered glass crunched under his shoes. The kettle had remained surprisingly untouched so John filled it before he went in search of two mugs and the tea bags.

“Did you do all this after I left?” John called as he checked the usual places for mugs. Finding one, he set it by the kettle and scoured the kitchen for another. No answer came from the other room, not that John was expecting one. Head shaking, John pulled a mug from the sink and looked it over. There was a sizeable crack running down the side, but it could still hold liquid, so he cleaned it out and set it with its twin while the kettle boiled. “You look like you had a fit, honestly. What was the point? Now you have this mess to clear up.” John kept on talking, it made him feel slightly less like he was invading some stranger's house while being completely ignored.

The sugar was even more of a nightmare to hunt down than the mugs, and the milk in the fridge rattled when John shook the carton – he really didn't want to know why – so his excursion into the kitchen hadn't been completely successful. Nevertheless, John returned with two mugs in hand and picked his way over to the sofa. The unmarked mug he gave to Sherlock (or rather he set on the table beside Sherlock) before he brushed down the only other upright piece of furniture, a dusty old chair with a union jack pillow, and sat down. He waited then, ready for something to happen as he watched the dark-haired wonder tap away on his phone. Every so often his eyebrows would twitch or his lips would fidget into some semblance of an expression but through it all he remained stubbornly silent and willfully ignorant to John's scrutiny – he hadn't touched the tea either. It made the alpha in John grumble when the omega wasn't accepting his peace offering.

This, at the very least, gave him time to contemplate Sherlock as a whole, now that he was seeing him in a better light and a clearer head. The man was tall, as uncommon for an omega as John’s shorter stature was for an alpha, but honestly not that unusual – there was nothing wrong with being a little short. The man seemed wound up as he sat curled into his ball on the sofa. His expression flickered, his fingers twitched around his phone, and even his feet and knees continued to move about – like the very idea of sitting still was offensive. John almost smiled when something on Sherlock’s phone made his face collapsed into disgust. His face really was _weird_ , certainly it wasn’t ugly, but it wasn’t something a traditional person would call beautiful or handsome. John’s thoughts moved to those eyes and his face felt heated. The way that man looked at him, looked _through_ him. That was a bit distracting, John pushed the thoughts away and took another swallow of the tea.

“So...” John piped up again, he couldn't take the awkward quiet, if he was going to be ignored then why was he invited in in the first place? It raised a challenge in John and he couldn't help himself any more, “Are you pissed off because you lost the cocaine?”

“You _took_ it,” Sherlock hissed as his lips twitched into a sharp sneer. _Ah, that did it_. 

“Honestly, I didn't mean to, but yes, I took it.” John straightened a bit in his chair, “You weren't exactly in your right mind. I wasn't about to let some addict get himself raped in the middle of an alley. What are you doing with drugs like that anyway? You must know –”

What happened next, John could only explain as an explosion. Sherlock leapt from the sofa in a flurry of arms, legs, and black silk and he drew himself up to his full height while his alien face turned sharp and bitter. Those eyes were suddenly smoldering as they stared through him. “I will not be lectured by you, John Watson,” The man prowled forward and John quickly jumped to his feet, lest he be cornered in the old chair. He may not have been tall, but like hell he was going to be bullied by _anyone_ , let alone this testy addict. He let out a warning growl when Sherlock drew too close.

“Maybe you should listen to a lecture once in a while, you might learn something,” John snapped back, eyes tracking the man as he began to pace through the room – oblivious to the debris littering the floor under his bare feet.

“I don't need to learn _anything_ from you,” Sherlock waved his hands erratically before they drove through his wild, damp curls, “I see everything I need to and I don't need to be _lectured_ about what I do!”

“What does that even mean? Sherlock, I don't even know –”

“It _means_ , John, that I know you! I know you're a medical student with interest in surgery still attending the University of London going on...” Sherlock rolled his eyes back on John, “at least a year, probably more.” The words spilled out of him like a waterfall, once it started it just kept going. “You come from a poor family with an older brother, but you don't get along with him. You don't like to visit, you don't even like to call home and that makes you feel guilty. 

“Your maintenance loans aren't enough to cover your living costs and your family won’t help. You try supplementing the difference by working at a coffee shop, but that won’t be enough forever and it scares you. You won’t finish uni at this rate,” Sherlock turned and gave John a final look over, his expression had relaxed during the onslaught of deductions. He only looked smug now, like he’d just won whatever battle he thought they were having.

“Just because your brother has his own addiction doesn't give you the right to preach to me about what I do with my life. You don't even know me.”

The tense silence that followed could have been cut with a knife. John stared at the man now preening under John's shock while he flicked off shards of glass from the mantel place. John's expression gained focus as the surprise began to fade. How did he do that? He started to nod a slow, proposed agreement, “Right... that was very... right. Brilliant.”

“What?” Sherlock's eyes were narrowed upon John now, oh that certainly got rid of that smug smirk.

“I don't know how, but Jesus, that was astounding.” John was shaking his head now as he mused over what had just happened. It was absolutely brutal. Who _was_ this man? “How did you know? You couldn't have found all that out in the last two days.”

“I told you, John,” Sherlock grumbled, but the tone he took was far more subdued than the previous anger filled rant, “I see these things. I observe.”

“Right, then how did you observe all that?” John questioned. The tension in the room seemed to have melted, so he relaxed his stance again, reaching for the tea he'd set beside Sherlock's untouched mug. Before the man answered, his phone made a beeping alert and, just like that, John lost Sherlock's attention to the sodding thing. The man strolled back to the couch and snatched his phone and no explanation was offered to John.

They didn't have long to stand there in silence. Like a switch had been pressed, Sherlock was suddenly dashing across the room and vanishing through the hall John assumed lead to a bedroom. John was left staring after him in a ruined living room. So he had been forgotten, or perhaps he was just being ignored. He huffed out a curse and turned to grab the mugs of tea – one untouched – and carried them both into the kitchen to wash them out in the sink. Like hell he was going to touch Sherlock's mess, but he was hardly the sort to leave his mess for others to deal with.

The two mugs were just set on the shelf when John heard Sherlock's stomping echo into the living room again. This time it sounded like he had shoes on to cross over the mess. John turned around and what he saw caused him pause, he was eternally thankful he'd just put the mugs down least he’d have dropped them both. Sherlock had changed and the image was almost a complete transformation; gone were the loose robes and too big pyjamas that made him appear anorexic and in their place was an outfit John could call sinful. The trousers fit him like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination and made his arse – no. _No_. John stamped down the line of thought before it got any further. He skipped his evaluation on Sherlock's tight shirt and instead focused on the leather jacket – it seemed safest set of observations to follow. The rich black material was clearly new, John could smell the fine leather from across the room. He finished his appraisal with Sherlock's face, still pale and gaunt, but – John’s thoughts stuttered when he found that Sherlock was watching him with those reading eyes and a smirk that looked a hell of a lot like trouble.

“Where are you going?” John probably shouldn't have asked, wasn't really his business.

“Out.” Sherlock confirmed John's unspoken thoughts: it wasn't. John scrunched his nose in lieu of a witty response and watched as Sherlock crossed the living room and disappeared into the hall. He heard the front door open then slam shut, and that was it. John was suddenly alone in a stranger's house.

This whole scenario was ridiculous, John had hoped to have a conversation, to know why Sherlock had almost ruined both their lives. Maybe he had a decent reason, maybe, afterwards, they could part amiably. Maybe have dinner – a pint – probably not. The point was, nothing went as John had expected and Sherlock was just mental. 

John leaned back against the kitchen worktop and took a minute to figure out what kind of person he had just met. Sherlock was utterly ridiculous and a right bastard and John had established _that_ within a few minutes of meeting the man. At the same time, Sherlock had cut through John so brutally that John’s head was still spinning. How could he have possibly known those things? Maybe the coffee shop thing was obvious, he clearly reeked of coffee, but what about everything else? He couldn’t have been out of his heat more than a day, did he stalk John in that time, even then, how did he get _surgeon_ right and _sister_ wrong? Either Sherlock was the most brilliant man he had ever met, or John should be very, very worried. John wanted to know, he really did, but he didn't think he could put up with another meeting to find out. 

It was time to leave – standing alone in the omega's bombsite of a home was getting slightly creepy. Unlike Sherlock, he had no interest in prying into other people’s secrets. He straightened and made his way out of the flat, making sure to lock the door behind him as he went. A part of him hoped Sherlock hadn't taken his keys, that would serve him right. John felt a bit childish at the thought, so he let it go as he stepped back onto the street. Now that he had some of his curiosity sated he could let this all go, Sherlock clearly wasn’t interested in anything to do with John.


	4. Christmas Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been over a week since John left Sherlock’s flat with more questions than answers. Until today, he'd come to terms with the fact that the whole incident was going to remain a worrying jumble in his head and Sherlock wasn’t going to sit still long enough to be sussed out. He had been _fine_ with that.
> 
> It seemed Sherlock had knack for surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

“Johnnyyy! Answer your phone, Doctor big-shot!” 

John clamped his eyes shut against the slurred voice coming over the line – Harry, drunk dialing him and leaving a voicemail at two o’clock Christmas morning. It wasn't until John woke up at eight that he saw the bloody alert and, still half asleep, he'd considered just deleting the damn thing and pretend he'd never saw it in the first place. Instead he’d listened to it, but he wished he hadn’t.

“Merry Christmas, Johnny,” his sister continued to shout over the obnoxious beat of heavy bass in the background. John pressed a hand against bleary eyes – Harry hadn’t been keeping her promise of sobriety. John had already guessed as much when she avoided his questions on his last e-mail, but this was ridiculous. 

“You’re supposed to call! I want to tell you about this fantastic girl I met! Oh how she can snogs me senseless, baby brother! She –”

At that, John mashed the phone viciously, turning the message off, and tossed it across the bed. It overshot and clattered to the floor, but John couldn’t be arsed to get up and find it again. He wasn’t awake enough to deal with disappointment, so with fleeting concern as to how his sister got home, he stuffed the message to the back of his mind and climbed out of bed. The floor was freezing and John hissed out his discomfort as he danced across the room and downstairs to the toilet. 

Christmas came and went for John like any other day. It was hard to celebrate the occasion without someone to spend it with. He'd briefly considered buying the small plastic tree he'd seen in a shop window on his way home the day before, but it didn’t feel worth the money when he'd just pack it away or chuck it a few days later. It wasn’t a terrible day, John had gotten his marks back for the finals and he’d done great, better than he expected he would. That alone was fantastic.

After the morning’s fiasco, he put off calling Harry – not that she would notice, she’d be hung over for most of the day – and skipped to his mum. The conversation was dismal as expected: she gave a half-hearted effort to sound interested in John’s progress. He would never admit it out loud, but it had been one of the best days of his life when he moved out of his parents house. Things were never exactly happy under that roof and at fifteen, when John presented as alpha, the bad turned that much worse. Sometimes he did feel guilty, as Sherlock so helpfully pointed out the other day, for not doing more for his parents. As it was, he ran off to college and the promise of a new life, never looking back.

He pressed through the conversation, listening to his mother complain and, when the call did come to an end, he promised to come visit her and dad soon – soon being a relative term.

The call was the unfortunate highlight of his Christmas. John had a sandwich for both lunch and dinner and went for a chilling walk near sunset to enjoy the Christmas lights while they were still relevant. A brief consideration went into a visit to the pub on his way back to the flat, but it just didn’t seem worth the effort. The night ended with John watching Christmas specials and flicking through his phone book, musing over names to call to wish Happy Holidays.

Two days before the new year, John finally got his next shift at the coffee shop. He had certainly gone half mad during the downtime – his room was spotless now, along with the kitchen and the living room. He found himself willing the semester to start again quickly just so he would have his life back – it wasn’t exciting, but it was _something_. John regretted his wish to have the flat all to himself.

The shop hours were a dreary reminder that the holidays were still upon London. People trickled in slowly from the drizzling rain, leaving John plenty of time in between to fuss over cleaning behind the counters and listening to Molly gossip and drift from subject to subject; the chatter filled the quiet and John appreciated the company after the lengthy bouts of silence of the last few days. 

When time rolled on towards closing, John began the usual motions of cleaning up, but it was hardly a arduous task given how slow the day had been. It was five minutes to close, the shop void of customers, when John heard the familiar jingle and the brief rush of cold air. He set down the wash cloth as he turned to meet the almost too late customer. “Hi, What can I- uh...”

John’s words failed him as he was caught under the pinning gaze of smoldering pale eyes. _Sherlock_. The tall omega strolled towards the counter with confidence and sway that John could never hope to master. The new leather jacket was speckled with raindrops as it wrapped around a deep purple shirt that looked like it would simply pop open if he stretched just so, and jeans that clung to him like a second skin. A well of elation bloomed in his chest, Sherlock walked in like he _owned_ the place and came to rest across the counter from John, eyes locked upon his. 

_What is he doing here_?

“Tea.” The man leaned over the counter surface upon crossed arms. 

“What?” 

“You were asking what I wanted. Tea. Small.” Sherlock answered with quick words while his expression turned amused in the wake of John's confusion.

“Right. You want that to go?” _Just ignore the fact that you know where I work, then_. John was struggling to find his footing against the alluring omega in front of him. Christ, what was wrong with him? He shouldn't be this excited about seeing the pompous arsehole. 

John put on a forced smile and went to brew the tea. The familiar motions brought John back into the moment and he smiled when he asked, “two sugars?” He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder when Sherlock confirmed the question with a hum, followed by stark silence. In less than a minute, John had set the paper cup down before the lounging man. Sherlock picked it up with long, nimble fingers and stretched back to his full height once more. John was just pulling up the total when Sherlock dropped a few coins onto the counter. 

“Going to drink it, this time?” John ventured as he gathered the coins – exact change, it turned out. The whole situation was odd, but after his last encounter he felt far more receptive to the oddities the omega projected about him. John looked up in time to see Sherlock tip of the cup and take a sip of the hot tea. John couldn’t stop the grin from blooming across his lips.

It had been over a week since John left Sherlock’s flat with more questions than answers. Until today, he'd come to terms with the fact that the whole incident was going to remain a worrying jumble in his head and Sherlock wasn’t going to sit still long enough to be sussed out. He had been _fine_ with that.

It seemed Sherlock had knack for surprises.

He wanted to ask why Sherlock was here. It couldn’t be a coincidence, not with the way Sherlock looked so confident and put together across the counter. The omega wasn't shocked to see a familiar face serving him tea, nor was he pretending they'd never met in the first place.

“Well, goodbye,” Sherlock turned then, breaking John from his thoughts as he watched the back of the omega sway towards the exit.

“Sherlock?” John called back in his sudden confusion. That was it? He was just leaving after that? Was he trying to prove something? “Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock didn’t stop at John’s call and the familiar jingle signaled his quick departure into the rainy London streets. His darkened figure moved across the window’s view before he vanished into the night. _What the hell_?

“You know him?” Molly’s timid question filled the void left in Sherlock's wake and John glanced over to see her watching out the window as well, hands clutching the broom handle she had been using to sweep around the tables. A splash of color ran across her cheeks and her teeth worried her bottom lip. She looked like she had just fallen in love and that was just hateful. He grabbed the cleaning cloth and began scrubbing the counter with a rough passion, “yes, he’s a twat.” 

Five minutes later, the front door was locked and the shades were drawn, Molly counted up the till's content and everything was packed away to its proper place. John might have been upset at the idea of going back to an empty flat if he wasn’t already fuming. What _was_ that? He was certain that Sherlock had been _playing_ with him and the idea made his blood boil. Where did Sherlock get off? John had done nothing to warrant being some victim in some madman's game of cat and mouse. He'd never met an omega like him. Hell, he had never met _anyone_ like him. Wandering in and out of his life, _stalking_ him. 

Nothing about Sherlock was normal and John _shouldn't_ want to see him again. He just wanted the man to leave him alone and let John forget about him. John closed his locker a little more forcefully than he had intended and he frowned as the door clattered against the latch. “I’m taking the rubbish out!” he called out to Molly, who was still shuffling about somewhere in the front room. He didn’t wait for a reply as he left out the back door, bin bag in hand.

And right into Sherlock’s familiar scent.

John’s eyes flew up to the man standing across the dimly lit alley. The only light came from a dull yellow bulb hanging over the door he'd just stepped out of, but it was enough to cast a glow upon the man leaning upon the brick work across the way, almost turning him into some B-movie greaser the way he wore his jacket, the glow of a cigarette hanging from his lips – needed more gel in the hair. 

“You,” John snapped in surprised. “Where did you come from?” Sherlock turned his eyes to the open end of the alley and John could practically feel the smart-ass answer hanging in the air between them. “No, forget it,” he corrected himself, “Have you been following me?”

“Of course not, John, stalking requires effort,” the deep voice drummed a smug replied as Sherlock pushed himself from the wall and strolled towards the street, cigarette dropped and crushed underfoot. As he moved away, John binned the rubbish and hurried to stepped in beside the taller man’s gate. Furious as John felt, he'd just feel worse if he let himself get left behind _again_. 

“Fine, I’ll bite. How did you know where I work, exactly?” John peered up to tall Sherlock. The man’s eyes were bright and his movements came easily. He didn’t look high, and John was relieved to see he hadn’t come strung out on cocaine or whatever else he let soak into his systems, cigarettes notwithstanding. 

It bothered him, knowing Sherlock was an addict. Knowing that he could end up on the street again without someone to come to his rescue. He noticed, with a sinking feeling, that it was the exact same worry he had for his sister, or his father, when they refused to listen or take care of themselves. Sherlock wasn’t a friend, barely an acquaintance and already John worried. He really didn’t need someone else like that in his life: someone needing to be cared for. 

His thoughts must have shown on his expression, because when he looked up again Sherlock was studying him, observing John with those dazzling eyes. The way he looked at John, he seemed to take in everything and give nothing back. John felt a heat rush to his cheeks and he looked away. 

“Simple,” Sherlock broke his own enchanting spell when he spoke, “You reeked of coffee when you returned my mobile, your trousers and shoes were stained with twelve different varieties. You walked from your work to my flat on both our brief encounters, therefore you not only work at a café, but one near to both the university and your place of residence. There are four possible locations, only one that matched the style of the napkin you had forgotten to remove from your back pocket. Your schedules are hanging behind the coffee bar for anyone to walk in and see.”

He was doing it again, observing and taking apart a problem, bit by bit and he was explaining himself this time. “That... Wow.” John shook his head. “That wasn’t simple at all.” Sherlock gave him a perturbed look. “I do stink of coffee, though. All the time.” He added as Sherlock's lips finally twitched up into a brief grin. It only made Sherlock look even more alien than usual.

“John!” 

He tensed just a little when he heard the soft voice calling for him. Shit, he'd forgotten to tell Molly he was leaving. He turned to see the smaller omega jogging to catch up with him and Sherlock, her face flushed from the effort – or perhaps Sherlock’s presence, John thought glumly. “Sorry, Molly.” John gave an apologetic smile, “I didn’t mean to up and leave without warning.” He glanced to Sherlock, then did a double take, Sherlock was practically glaring at the poor girl. John nudged his arm with an elbow.

Molly looked between the two men before she gave John a brief, understanding smile, “It’s alright. I was just hoping, maybe, we could walk to the bus stop again? If you want, I don’t mean to get in the way.”

John was about to say how fine it really was when Sherlock’s sharp words interrupted. “You’ve got a stalker.”

John rounded his head towards Sherlock at that blunt admissions, while Molly was just stunned. “What?” John demanded, “Sherlock, you can’t just – ”

“How did you know?” Molly’s small voice laid over John’s reprimand and his mouth snapped shut, his gaze shooting back to Molly.

“An alpha,” Sherlock continued with that sharp, calculating edge to his voice. “He’s been following you for months, at least since August. You’re not interested. You prefer your own gender.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched into another, far more hollow smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Molly was blushing furiously at this point, and John couldn’t believe the man's tactlessness. “Sherlock.”

But his attempts to quell Sherlock’s outburst went ignored and the tall omega stepped closer to Molly, as if the very idea of standing still was preposterous, “He’s approaching you at work now. I saw the way you looked when I came in, you were expecting _him_. You are walking with John,” He waved a hand towards John like that might highlight his point, “because you think he won’t bother you if you’re with him.”

There was a stiff silence that followed Sherlock’s biting words. John looked between the two omega’s with hesitating glances before Molly finally stammered out “I... yes.” 

“Mol? Really?” John gave up on Sherlock when Molly sounded so crestfallen. He turned his full attention to her as she gave a small nod. He reached out and took hold of her upper arms, giving them a gentle squeeze, “Have you gone to the police about this?”

“Yes,” Molly said, offering one of her smiles, “but he hasn’t threatened me – he’s just a creep, you know? Everything’s fine –”

“No it isn’t, Molly,” John growled out, she shouldn’t just shrug something like this off. He looked at Sherlock again, hoping for some sort of support in this, but the taller man wasn’t even watching them any more. Instead, he had wandered further down the pavement away from them – having the gall to look _bored_.

“Look,” John spoke through clenched teeth, he released Molly and dug into his coat pocket for his phone, “I’ll give you my number and if you ever feel like you need help or... or just someone to talk to, you call me.” John waited until she nodded before he finally surrendered a relieved sigh. He ignored the grunt of disapproval that came from Sherlock – whatever the reason for it, he could shove off. John was happier knowing Molly would come to him if she needed. The two exchanged numbers and John felt a bit better about the whole situation. He would have done this much sooner had he known.

After that was settled, the three continued their way towards the bus stop. John and Molly shared a quiet conversation about her plans for New Years, but Sherlock remained stubbornly silent, even when Molly attempted to lob bashful questions at him. John might have tried at conversation with tall dark and handsome too, but this way he could pretend that he wasn’t being ignored as well.

When they reached the bus stop, John said his goodbyes to Molly while Sherlock stood off to the side, fiddling with a cigarette and ignoring them both until Molly’s bus rolled away. Only when the bus was turning the block corner did he move once more to John’s side and together they started off in the general direction of home. Silence reigned as John watched a match's flame light up Sherlock’s features in a brief burst before the tip of the cigarette came to life with a curl of red embers and grey smoke tendrils.

“That was rude, you know,” John spoke up.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away. He drew out a long pull of the cigarette and sighed a heavy breath of smoke into the night air. “Rude?” he asked, sounding utterly unconcerned. “Why should I care?”

“Yes. Rude,” John insisted, “you could have been a bit kinder at least. Molly is a sweet girl and she doesn’t deserve to be harassed by some brute stalker.” John eyed the man, but Sherlock seemed immune to his lecture and shrugged a lazy shoulder. 

“Is this what you do? You look at people and read their life’s story?”

“I _observe_ , John. I see what everyone else is too ignorant to catch.” Sherlock flicked the end of his cigarette and smoldering ash drift down and died on the cold, wet pavement. 

“So when you said all those things about Molly-”

“Obvious conclusions from observable evidence. She wasn’t even trying to hide anything.” Sherlock held an edge of irritation to his voice, but John just felt guilty for being so blind. He had noticed something was off when she first asked to walk with him, but he'd ignored it; he never imagined it could be something so serious.

John wanted to change the subject. “How did you know I want to be a surgeon?” 

“The jumper you wore when returning my phone had a rip under the sleeve. You mended it with a surgeon’s knot. Well done, you practice.”

“Oh, right.” John watched the man's profile as they passed under another street light, “You could tell all that with a glance?” Maybe the lights were playing with his eyes, because the smile Sherlock made almost looked predatory.

“You obtained the jumper some years ago,” Sherlock continued with an eager gleam in his eye, but John was too interested in what he had to say to stop him now. “It doesn’t fit you exactly, it was made to fit someone a size larger than you. But you’re an alpha, you wouldn’t wear clothes that smell like some stranger. It came from someone in your immediate family. Harry. The label was sewn onto your bookbag the night we met. Wouldn’t be your fathers, he would have no reason for a bookbag. An older brother then.”

“However, you still wear the jumper to the point of mending rips, the bookbag was far past its prime. If your family were helping you now, you wouldn’t be having these problems. Therefore you aren’t often in contact with them, nor are they contacting you...” Sherlock hesitated a moment, his eyes narrowed, “Or they’re all dead,” He swung around to observe John’s reaction, “No, not dead then.”

“When you found me in heat, you didn’t take advantage of me.”

“Alphas aren’t all chest thumping brutes, Sherlock.” John felt a tenseness enter his voice, but Sherlock ignored him again.

“Instead, you resisted the instinct enough to get me home and safe. You are _accustomed_ to giving care to the helpless. You have a strong sense of morality and that was strong enough to override your instinctual desires. You have been caring for someone else for some time. Your brother, correct?”

That was getting a bit too close to territory John did not want to venture in to. He clamped his mouth in a pointed silence and Sherlock finally turned his all seeing eyes upon him, “Oh I see... not just your brother?”

John felt his jaw clench against Sherlock’s scrutiny, willing himself to remain quiet until Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away. The silence that followed almost felt awkward and John was about to attempt to break the lull when Sherlock beat him to it.

“The way you carry yourself, the way you react. It all gives you away, John, like everyone else. Obvious.” Sherlock almost sounded remorseful as he paused to stamp out the butt of the spent cigarette. John paused long enough for Sherlock to start walking again before he spoke.

“It’s not obvious to just anyone,” he points out, “I’ve never met anyone like you, no one that could just look at someone and know so much.” What was it like inside that brain of his?

“Did I get anything wrong?” The smooth baritone turned up at the end and it drew John’s gaze towards the man again.

“Sorry?” he frowned.

“I do hate repeating myself, John.” Sherlock flashed his teeth in a brief grimace, “Wrong, was anything wrong?”

“Oh... right... yes, actually,” he finally caught up with the jump in subjects. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed upon him and John shrugged. “I don’t have a brother.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was priceless. He almost seemed offended. “Just a sister. Harry is short for Harriet.” John smiled.

“ _Sister_?” Sherlock bit out an indignant huff and John’s smile grew. This was nice.

“Beta, did you guess that one?” John wiggled his eyebrows, earning him a distasteful snort from the taller omega.

John let out a huff of laughter as the two walked along, “But everything else, yeah. Right on point. That was great.” The rain was picking up now, and John wished he had thought to bring a more waterproof jacket, or a brolly. His shoulders hunched some and he glanced sideways to Sherlock. The man didn’t seemed bothered by the rain, it beaded off his leather coat and turned his brown hair dark. 

It wasn’t so bad, John was lulled into a calm by the sound of the quiet drizzle hitting the damp cement and the tapping of their shoes as they moved, side by side. The break in conversation gave him time to puzzle over the man walking beside him. This was the same man John found just a few days before – vulnerable, about to be assaulted in an alley. The man who trashed his own flat and left John behind at the summons of a text. John should want nothing to do with Sherlock or his antics – he was an addict for Christs sake. 

And yet, Sherlock was brilliant, John couldn’t deny that. He was an interesting, unique thing against a repetitive background. _Dangerous_ , his mind supplied, _intense, amazing, beautiful..._. John wondered what it would be like to kiss him properly, outside of his heat.

“Dinner?” Sherlock’s voice broke through John's runaway train of thought and he flushed with guilt, loosing the smile he hadn’t realized he was wearing. That was dangerous, thinking up fantasies like that. He looked back to Sherlock, the omega had stopped walking. John stopped and turned back to the man, his eyes drifting up to the restaurant front Sherlock had stopped at. Angelo’s? Italian, maybe?

“I shouldn’t,” John admitted after a moment's debate. He really didn’t have the cash to spend on a nice dinner. Rent was due soon – that time of the month always made him gloomy.

“Nonsense, I’m buying.” Sherlock put on a sharp smile as he twirled and vanished into the restaurant before John could flat out deny him. Was he serious? John scrunched his nose in frustration. Who was he kidding, it was Sherlock, of course he was serious. Without any better ideas presenting themselves, John straightened his jacket and followed after the omega.

The smells that hit John then shot straight to his stomach and it clenched with a hungry growl. When was the last time he'd eaten at a decent restaurant, or even cooked a decent meal? He took in another deep breath as he found Sherlock settled in a booth by the window, stretched out and lounging like he owned the place. It seemed a default stance with the omega, and the sight sent a warmth down his spine that only briefly distracted him from his rumbling belly. “Sherlock,” he stated firmly as he settled into the seat across from him, “I can’t let you pay for my meals. I hardly know you.” And though John didn’t want to admit it, his alpha pride wasn’t about to accept such a token. “I’ll pay for my meal.” John waited, but Sherlock looked to be off in his own world, his gaze drifting back and forth through the wandering souls out the window, “Sherlock, are you listening?”

Sherlock turned his head, a smile graced his expression briefly, but it wasn’t for John: the waiter was upon them. Sherlock gave his order with practiced ease that only left John stuttering through a drink order before giving a quick look through the menu. Lasagne it was. Christ, John hoped this command Sherlock had over him wasn’t going to become a habit.

When the waiter was gone, John glanced around the quiet restaurant. It only just occurred to him that he was sharing a dinner with the omega he _really_ shouldn’t be hanging around. He settled back in his seat and regarded the man across the table. “Sherlock, what is this?”

Sherlock slid a hand across his purple sleeve as he leant upon the table. They had taken his coat at the door, John noticed, and he felt a bit silly for still wearing his damp shooting jacket. “I was hungry,” came Sherlock’s simple reply. John could hear the unspoken ‘obviously’.

“You don't have to buy my meals, I can manage just fine, you know,” John shot back a bit too quickly.

“We both know that isn't true.” Sherlock's gaze became sharp as he stared John down, as if he were waiting for John to deny him. 

John didn’t even bother, he glared right back to the omega as he changed tactics, “Then I –”

“You owe me,” Sherlock continued and the very sentence caused John to grunt. Owe?

“What exactly do I owe you?”

“You stole my seven percent.”

“What? The –” John stopped, then glanced around. When he continued, it was at a whisper. “The cocaine? Sherlock, I got you home _safe_ that night!”

“Fine, then I owe _you_.” Sherlock countered. It seemed the more flustered John got, the more obstinate Sherlock grew. What could John say to that? He tapped the table in his agitation, but the sound of the man's phone cut off his thoughts. He watched as Sherlock pulled it free from his pocket, and a sudden dread jumped in the pit of John's belly. He felt an urgent need to pull his attention away from whatever message he had just received, lest he be ignored again – or worse: watch Sherlock walk out on him and his order.

“What do you do, anyway?” John latched upon the first question that came to mind. “Are you a student or...?” he added, when Sherlock broke eye contact with the phone.

“Sometimes,” he answered cryptically.

“Sometimes...? Sometimes you're a student?” John attempted to urge a straight answer out of him. 

“Sometimes I'm not,” Sherlock confirmed without a hint for John to work off. What did that even mean? It didn't work like that. Had he been to uni in the past and dropped out? Maybe he was part time and only took one or two classes a semester. Sherlock was clearly brilliant, John didn't doubt that Sherlock could excel in whatever field he picked. 

“Something to do with chemistry?” John remembered the beakers and equipment at the flat. 

“When the mood strikes,” Sherlock hiked a shoulder in a shrug, “There are far more interesting experiments than what is allowed on University grounds. The professors are morons and the lessons are sluggish at best. I’ve found far more advanced material on the internet alone.”

“Do I even what to know what sorts of experiments you do conduct?” 

“Probably not,” Sherlock replied with an amused gleam in his eyes.

John puzzled over the man and his sometimes student status when their food arrived quicker than John expected. The smell made his stomach rumble again and John let the subject drop in favor of digging in. Three mouthfuls later he noticed he was practically shoving food into his mouth while Sherlock was poking his pasta primavera like it might bite him.

John hummed, watching Sherlock watch him. Didn't he say he was hungry? “You do know you look like a twig, right? All skin and bones, its not a very attractive look.”

Alright, a small lie. Sherlock was bloody gorgeous, but he was still way too skinny, probably all elbows and knees and sharp angles in bed. John shut those thoughts down before he could form any mental images that could get him in trouble.

Across the table, Sherlock raised an offended eyebrow. Or perhaps it was just to humour John, he couldn’t tell.

“You should eat.” John pressed, poking his fork towards the food in front of Sherlock. “You said you were hungry.” He watched, avoiding his own meal until he saw Sherlock pull a decent forkful into his mouth. Satisfied, John nodded. “Good. You won’t be starving today, at least.”

Sherlock gave an unconvinced hum around his food and it only encouraged John’s smile. A sudden idea struck him and John gave a quick glance to the other patrons of the restaurant before he nodded his head towards the table nearest the kitchen, where a young couple sat. “So you claim that you can read people.”

“Claim, John?” Sherlock replied in a deceptively flat tone, but his eyes were turning to follow John’s gesture nonetheless.

“Yes, claim, I’m not so convinced,” John teased Sherlock, his smile growing when Sherlock flashed him an offended glare, “you enjoy showing off.” Then the glare shifted to look put on. “Come on, tell me about that couple. Why are they here?”

The remainder of the shared dinner was spent with Sherlock’s clever deductions floating between the two of them and John’s rapt attention to every bit of it. Each time Sherlock jumped to wild conclusions John struggled to find the connections Sherlock so easily saw. Some of the things Sherlock pointed out were so far fetched that John would shake his head and giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. Honestly, how could Sherlock tell that the man in the corner was a janitor for a local cleaner service and was currently wearing a red lace thong under those scraggly old black trousers? 

It was amazing, really, and John was dazzled when Sherlock took the time to explain the reasoning behind his deductions. Sherlock was in his element when he watched people like this, he shined each time John was wowed by his words but, really, how could John _not_ be? He finished his lasagne off at some point during Sherlock's break down as to why he believed the two women sitting in the booth near the door were having affairs with each others husband and how neither were even remotely smart enough to figure that out. John had convinced Sherlock to take several more bites throughout the night, but his plate remained unfortunately full by the time the bill came. In the end he couldn’t bring himself to complain when Sherlock paid for their meal without even glancing to the cost and they took their leave back into the streets with leftovers and a content ease.

They never really stopped talking as they walked, though John wasn’t sure what had got him started on his own medical career or why he felt so at ease talking about it with Sherlock. “I want to help people,” he had said, “I always have. All the way back to when I would play doctor with Harry.” He grinned, only to falter when Sherlock wasn’t beside him any more. He turned around, finding the omega stopped in front of... oh. His flat. Had they really got all the way there so quickly? Walking back to Sherlock, John felt a sudden, tight feeling deep in his chest. How did all this become like... like a _date_.

John's focus jumped to Sherlock's hand as it moved from the omega's side to brush against John's cheek. His touch was cold, his hand smelled of cigarettes and of the sweet honey smell John could only identify as Sherlock’s omega scent. His mind shuttered and his gaze snapped back to those grey, shifting eyes, hooded now by the shadows of the stoop they stood upon. Sherlock had that look again, that look that tore through John like a hot blade and damned if that didn't prickle his skin with chillbumps. “Sherlock? I don't...”

Sherlock's hand slid easily to the back of John's neck as thin fingers brushed at the damp strands of his hair. The touch was so sudden that he should have jerked and pulled away on instinct, but the sweet scent drew closer and John couldn’t have stopped himself if he wanted to. He was tugged forward, his lips met Sherlock’s soft bow and his world narrowed down to the contact between them. 

This kiss was nothing like the fierce grapple they shared during his heat, this was gentle and soft and yet still so very much. John’s nose was filled with the smells of leather, cigarette smoke and sweet omega. A wetness touched John’s lip and his own tongue jumped to chase after the promise of more and he slowly licked his way inside that hot mouth. It tasted of sharp spices, remnant of Italian, and the bitter tar of his stupid cigarettes and under it all was a definite, intoxicating taste of Sherlock. Gods, how did this happen?

Hands lifted up and John nudged against the omega’s chest, firm and insistent until Sherlock broke the connection with a low groan. The man pulled back, but only so much as his lidded gaze met John’s, his arm still wrapped around him like a vice unwilling to let go.

John struggled to find his words in that sharp stare and his tongue darted out to taste the lingerings of the omega on his lips. “Sherlock, what the hell?” The omega's mouth twisted in a sinful smirk – a look that sent sparks down John’s limbs, “what was that?”

“A kiss,” Sherlock purred, eyes shifting down to John’s lips, and John found himself licking them once more. “Evidently.”

“Yes.” John cleared his throat. He thought to pull away from those long fingers stroking the hairs at the base of his neck, but he seemed to have forgotten how. “Yes it was, but I’m not... I'm not into guys, Sherlock, I’m sorry if–”

John’s words cut off with a grunt when Sherlock whirled the both of them around and pushed John against the front door of the flat. The omega loomed over John and it was so familiar with that night that John was breathless in moments and his trousers were suddenly uncomfortably tight. _Oh, God_. A move like that would normally send his fists flying, but the way Sherlock was looking at him: hungry – his brain supplied for him – he did everything in his power not to fucking _whimper_.

“I see the way you look at me, John Watson.” Sherlock leaned his weight into John, his lips brushing at the shell of his ear as he whispered his words. Cool air tickled as Sherlock inhaled deeply so close to his neck. He was _scenting_ John, and fuck if that didn’t go straight to his cock. John’s fingers twitched in aching _need_ to reach up and touch the man. 

“You want to touch me,” Sherlock purred against John’s ear, “you want to kiss me.” A warm tongue brushed against John’s ear, dipping through the folds and this time John groaned out obscenely. “You want to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” John groaned. He couldn’t even pretend that wasn’t true.

Sherlock's head tilted and warm lips touched high on John's exposed neck while adept fingers slid down his side to press against John's hip. John’s left hand jumped up and snaked into Sherlock’s damp curls while the other grabbed at his jacket and tugged him closer, holding him as that tongue made large swaths across his skin. “You are... interesting, John.” The voice was heady as Sherlock moved back towards John’s ear to nip at his lobe. “I want you to fuck me.”


	5. A Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had the pleasure swallowing down Sherlock’s gasp as his fingers slid down to caress Sherlock’s petite cock, thumb tracing the hard flesh before he moved further, sliding between round cheeks to brush against that puckered flesh. Sherlock immediately spread his legs wider, “Hurry, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

_Sherlock._

That madman was the first thing to drift through John’s groggy mind when he came slowly from sleep in the omega’s bed. Sherlock’s scent surrounded him like a cocoon – undercut by the aroma of their sinful deeds the night before. A smile curled John’s lips and warmed his expression while his hand stretched out from under the duvet – his fingers found nothing but cold, empty sheets around him.

John pushed himself up on an elbow to observe the room. It was empty of the omega and, to John’s shock, fairly clean and tidy. He hadn’t had a chance to get a good look the night before and it was a bit of a surprise after seeing what Sherlock had done to the rest of his flat. His head tilted and he listened for any sign of life outside the bedroom door, but the seconds ticked by and nothing alerted John of another person wandering outside the room; Sherlock had abandoned him.

The alpha flopped back onto the bed with a mighty grunt and stretched out to dominate the entirety of the wide mattress. Maybe he could rub enough of his own scent into the soft sheets that Sherlock would smell him no matter how much he washed the bedding. Would serve the bastard right – not that John was all that upset. He sort of figured it would be a one night stand; Sherlock didn’t seem the type to cuddle, make coffee, and talk of dates. The very idea left John with a silly, sleepy grin. No, he knew exactly what he had walked – jumped head first – into. 

John let his eyes drift closed as the night before came back to him full force. After Sherlock's tempting proposal at the door, John had been more than ready to surrender to the surge of _want_ that took over his mind and body. Thinking back, he never stood a chance. 

* * *

“Oh God, _yes_.” John groaned, head tilted to the side to let Sherlock lavish the crook of his neck with that wonderfully skilled tongue of his. Because why the fuck not? Sherlock wasn’t in heat, he wanted John, and John wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t want the skinny, brilliant bastard.

The omega hummed his approval and shifted back to mash their mouths into a new vicious kiss much more akin to the one they shared weeks before. There was nothing sweet about the groping lips, clashing teeth, and wrestling tongues fighting to get more. Sherlock tasted too much like an ash tray and Italian while John stunk of coffee and the leftovers were hanging off his arm but he didn't have it in him to care whilst fighting to dominate every bit of that viper mouth; a low growl rumbled from his chest when Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip. John’s left hand ducked under the leather jacket to dig into Sherlock’s lower back and drag the omega’s front flush against him. The hardness pressing now against John’s belly was foreign and strange. 

John never thought he would find himself in bed with another cock. Men never appealed to John, there were too many sharp angles and Sherlock was one of the worst offenders. Yet, Sherlock was mesmerizing – the way he swayed, rather than walked; the way he loomed, rather than stood; the way he pierced, rather than stared. Sherlock was the exception to all rules.

He was only vaguely aware of Sherlock’s hands shifting away from him until he heard the key meeting the door’s lock. When it opened he stumbled backwards into the hallway, holding his twig of an omega in a tight grip and pulling them both until they were secure inside with the door shut tight. 

Not to be accused of shying away from a new experience, John swiftly pressed his weight into the taller omega, pushing until Sherlock’s back was against the wall so John could slide closer between spread knees and slot their lips together once more. Better, but not enough. John felt a tugging on his shoulder and he shifted back just enough to let Sherlock tear his jacket off. The wet fabric hit the floor behind him and he repaid the favour while Sherlock dragged him deeper into the sitting room.

Stumbling through the dark flat, he was trying to simultaneously walk and grope at clothes when a thud and a sudden, sharp pain against his shin jerked John from his lust addled haze. He grunted out, “fuck!” and pulled away from the other man to eye the upside down coffee table that had offended his poor, throbbing leg. John’s eyes jumped to the rest of the living room and what he found left him completely aghast. “Sherlock,” he cried, looking from the disaster area back to the tall omega, “you didn’t tidy up at all!”

“Boring.” Sherlock’s attention roamed briefly over the mess he had left in his living room. He seemed to decide it was beneath him and settled his attention back on John, his long fingers stretched out to tug at John’s sleeve.

“Wait, Sherlock, this is serious. It's been weeks!” John set his hand on the omega's chest, stopping his coaxing advances. “You’re a complete wreck, you know that, right?”

“Tsk,” Sherlock huffed. It was a marvel how quickly he jumped from ‘god’s gift to man’ to ‘three years old and pouting’, “Mycroft normally sends someone by now.” He glared at the offending room. “He’s throwing a tantrum, the fat sod.”

“Who?” John muttered as he rubbed at his shin. There was going to be one hell of a bruise there in the morning.

“Never mind.” Sherlock’s growling word was his only warning when tight hands grabbed onto his jumper and dragged him back up towards eager lips. The touch was brief and Sherlock began to trail quick nips down John’s chin and jaw, marking each centimetre with words in between, “this. is. more. interesting.”

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he hissed, “this discussion isn’t over.”

Sherlock clearly wasn’t listening as he made it to the base of his neck and latched on with those wonderful lips, sucking and licking where his scent was strongest. John twitched at the sensation, a groan escaping his tight chest. How did he end up so lucky? He couldn’t stand the idea of resisting any longer. His hips rolling against the omega, brushing his hard alpha flesh into a soft thigh and the moan Sherlock made was positively evil.

“You are –” John attempted, breathless.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed as he tugged at John’s jumper, dragging it up and over his head. The shirt came next and those long, chilled fingers pressed into him, guided John once more through the room, this time John had the foresight to avoid the table.

“Sherlock, I-” John tried again as he closed his fingers around the dark purple shirt.

“I know!” Sherlock bit out and jerked at John’s belt. He sounded more annoyed at the attempts of praise, so John shut up and focused on those shirt buttons that were keeping that delicious body from him. Undoing the first three, John stopped the omega at the bedroom door to bury his nose against the man's neck, needing to scent him _now_. With his hands pinned his omega half in and half out of the bedroom, Sherlock was left to squirm until impatience won out and he attempted to push John away. John replied with a low growl, his instincts demanding he not to let his omega get away. Only when the man stilled did John close his lips around the muscle and lavish it with rough, sucking kisses.

Sherlock tasted divine and John wanted more of those odd conflicting tastes – of rain and smoke and leathers all mixed in with Sherlock's own amazing scents. He couldn't explain it, but it stirred an excitement in John that he had never felt before. The women he'd slept with often covered themselves with enhanced smells and perfumes that tickled his nose and sent his attention away from the intimacy of the moment. Even the women who he liked to scent were nothing compared to this. A moan sent a jolt down John's spine and he ground his hips against Sherlock’s thigh, pulling as many noises through that rich voice as John could manage. He wanted to hear it all.

A weight touched his chest and John growled again, wanting nothing more than to keep Sherlock pinned under him, but the push was insistent and John finally surrendered his hold to be pushed back so insistently that he nearly stumbled onto his arse. He stepped back until his legs hit the edge of the bed and dropped down into a sit and, a moment later, Sherlock came to his knees in front of him. 

_Oh that is lovely._ He dug his hand into those damp, inky locks and curled his fingers gently across his scalp. Beautiful, Sherlock was utterly, unworldly beautiful. The room was dark and the only light came from the window somewhere off to John's left, but it was enough to paint Sherlock's face a masterpiece of lights and shadows. John could feel his heart thudding in his ears.

Sherlock’s broad hands laid flat against John’s inner thighs, drifting ever upwards in great sweeps.

“Sherlock –”

“Hush, John.” The omega purred, his gaze cast up from under dark lashes. John swallowed hard, tongue slipping out to lick already wet lips. He could only watch in a haze of _want_ when hands pressed into the obvious bulge between his legs and the insistent tug told him to lift his hips. Sherlock pulled John’s trousers and pants down to his knees, leaving him, for all intents and purposes, naked before the posh omega. _Christ Almighty_.

Glancing down, John saw his own cock standing obscenely between his legs. He watched as those long fingers wrapped around him and squeezed. Oh, it was heaven. His cock throb under those pale fingers, forcing out a breathless groan as the mad omega's long fingers began to stroke him with tortuously slow strokes. He dared to look back to the omega's expression and almost jumped when he saw Sherlock studying his face with those brilliant eyes. Oh, _fuck_.

He gasped when Sherlock brushed his thumb over his swollen gland and his hands tugged gently at those curled locks, but Sherlock slipped away from him, right through his fingers. John took the chance to wiggle out of the last of his clothes while Sherlock went to the bedside table and dug into the drawer. Lube was dropped beside John’s hip and Sherlock dropped on his knees again while he ripped apart a condom wrapper. Right, John had almost forgotten, shit. His heart sunk at the very idea. Was Sherlock… did he _have_ something?

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped through John’s growing concern.

“I didn’t say anything,” he huffed in defense, but he scooted further back on the bed when Sherlock advanced upon him.

“You’re thinking. Loudly.” Sherlock glanced up to John’s worried expression before those fingers wrapped around him and the condom slid slowly down his length, hazing John’s worry with the slow pull of Sherlock’s hand. “I’m always careful. I’m clean.” Sherlock watched him until he nodded. John believed him. The nod was all Sherlock needed to plunge forward, those wonderful lips wrapped around John's engorged glans and John gasped at the sudden, heady pull. His hand reached for those curls as velvet heat curled around his cock. 

“Sherlock – oh, fuck,” the words rolled out of him in moans and gasps, his fingers sinking deeper into Sherlock’s dark curls, nails gently scratching against scalp. This was insane, it was... god, it was so bloody amazing. John didn't dare look away from the magnificent image of Sherlock’s lips swallowed more and more of his cock. As he watched, the grey-green eyes fluttered up to focus again on John, the colour only a ring around dark pools in the dim light – they bored into him like they could read his every twitch and breathless whine. Gods, they probably could, probably _were_ and that only made John’s cock twitch inside Sherlock’s molten mouth. Oh, _fuck_.

That talented tongue danced over his head in quick flicks and John’s fingers tightened against his scalp, urging him to keep pushing until John just couldn't take it any more – Sherlock suddenly released him without so much as a warning. Wet lips sliding away with a wet pop. It was so quick that he was left gasping and twitching with the need to thrust up and follow after that perfect mouth. He resisted, and released Sherlock’s inky curls as he slid away and moved up off his knees and onto the bed. 

Sherlock’s settled as his hands moved to his shirt, leaving John to draw in slow, steadying breaths as he watched Sherlock's nimble fingers unhooked the stubborn round buttons and reveal more and more of that lovely pale chest. The last button fell away and Sherlock let the shirt open to a long strip of pale torso, Sherlock moved to his belt and trousers next and John's muddled brain finally caught up to what was happening. 

John climbed onto his knees as Sherlock pushed off those posh trousers. John was upon him in an instant, bare skin slid against bare skin as he nipped at Sherlock’s jaw. One hand slid against the omega's back while the other moved across his front, down his chest, down his belly, down until his hand found the stiff, heated flesh of his cock. Slotting his hand around it, John was hooked on the sound of Sherlock’s responsive gasps. 

Before he had a proper chance to become acquainted with the new, responsive anatomy, Sherlock pulled away once more and settled against the headboard. John watched as he opened the bottle of lube and the clear gel was spilled into his hand. 

“Wait,” John demanded with a breathless rasp. He slid forward, snatching Sherlock’s wrist before he could pull it out of reach and stole the warming gel from those long fingers. “Let me.”

“John, I would be faster,” Sherlock had the nerve to look annoyed, and yet he spread his knees as John settled over him, submitting to John’s demands and John rewarded him with a short, wet kiss. 

John had the pleasure swallowing down Sherlock’s gasp as his fingers slid down to caress Sherlock’s petite cock, thumb tracing the hard flesh before he moved further, sliding between round cheeks to brush against that puckered flesh. Sherlock immediately spread his legs wider, “Hurry, John.” 

John slid down and nipped at Sherlock’s collarbone in retaliation. He circled the tight flesh under his fingertips and, with a careful nudge, he pressed a finger into the tight heat and was rewarded by the soft moan rolling from the omega. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed and John could not resist moving up and taking that mouth once more, only this time he kissed with a gentleness that wasn’t there before. He lavished Sherlock’s mouth and pressed deeper inside, rolling his finger around with a gentle focus without the practiced ease of experience.

“More.” Sherlock gasped when their kiss briefly broke, demanding with that baritone purr and John worshiped that sound. Gently a second finger joined the first and the omega was moaning under his ministrations. Sherlock was fucking _vocal_ and every cry in that beautifully deep voice was an aphrodisiac. It should be a sin the way those notes rolled out of his open mouth, formless but expressing everything Sherlock needed them to. His breath shook as the kiss broke again, John’s lips moved down to worry at the spots on the man's neck where his own scent was already saturated. Three fingers pressed in, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to remain still.

“John,” The deep voice groaned out as Sherlock arched up against him, “now, John.”

He might have laughed if he wasn’t so over the edge, “You’re sure?” He was still so tight. 

“Now,” He felt a squeeze against his bicep and a growl rumble from Sherlock’s chest.

After one last twist, he slid his fingers free and pumped his own wrapped cock with more of the slick lube. Right, this was it. John licked his lips as he leaned forward and, scraping his teeth against the muscle of Sherlock’s shoulder, aligned his aching, ignored cock against the puckered ring and began the slow push.

“Harder John, stop teasing” Sherlock growled from under him, “I’m not made of glass,” his hips lifting against the push until John was sliding into resistance. Dear God, the tight heat was far different than any woman he ever been with – it was tighter, hotter, and squeezed against his throbbing cock like it was made only for him. Only his Sherlock. The omega hissed as John grabbed at his hips, stilling Sherlock’s squirming until John thought he was ready. Only then did he slowly push deeper – _deeper_ – until he was seated flush inside the man. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock,” John groaned, head dipping to rest against Sherlock’s shoulder. He had to stop now, as strained as his willpower already was, or else everything would be over far too quickly. Sherlock, at least, granted him a brief reprieve, but it only seemed to last mere moments before the omega began to squirm again. _Impatient_. John let himself give in to the intoxicating drag of motion in and out of that slick passage, he was already on edge, already building up to what he knew was going to be an amazing finish. 

His eyes clamped shut as he swam in the tangle of their scents with each deep gasp for breath. Sherlock was moaning under him, making such delicious noises as his hands gripped John’s back, digging into his skin with those long fingers, leaving the most delicious trails of heat in their wake, pulling happy little noises that John just couldn't help.

John pushed himself up, his eyes turned upon Sherlock’s face as he began to thrust in earnest. “Beautiful, amazing,” he whispered as he watched the exposed man under him; Sherlock’s eyes were closed again, head tilted to bare his neck and curls unruly against pale flesh and pillow. Oh, he was gorgeous like this: undone and open to John. 

How many people got to see him like this? How could he make this so easy to obtain – this moment that should be treasured and cherished? A low growl rumbled up from John’s chest, his hips snapping up into a thrust while Sherlock gasped and arched against him. He had to fight the urge to possess this omega – No bond could form outside a full heat, but he could leave the marks, leave them for people to see. 

Hormones. Scents. They were trying to get the better of him.

John closed his eyes and focused instead on the slick heat, letting his hand travel between them to take Sherlock in a demanding grip. It only took a few good strokes before the omega tensed and gasped out John’s name with a delicious, disheveled voice. He spilled over John’s hand and both their bellies while John’s cock was clenched in those velvet folds so perfectly. There was no turning back, he thrust hard into the omega until he followed Sherlock over the edge. 

“Oh fuck, Sh’lock,” he thrust deep and held there as he spilled into latex – the world fell away in that moment, it only existed for two.

* * *

John pulled a lazy smile as his thoughts roamed over last night’s finale. Afterwards, they cleaned up, Sherlock had another cigarette, and John collapsed on the bed beside him with an arm flung over the addictive omega. In the end, whether or not the man cared if John stayed for the night was up to debate. He didn’t kick John out, nor did he ask him to stay. John fell asleep waiting for Sherlock’s decision, and he distinctly remembered Sherlock still in the bed when he did.

Rolling over to the edge of the mattress, John at last got his bearings of the room. His gaze roamed over the almost formal setting and the lack of personal photos gracing the walls or surface tops. He couldn’t exactly deduce what any of it meant or why this room was clean when the rest was left a disaster zone, he wasn’t bloody _Sherlock_ after all. Deductions impossible, John gave up and picked up his trousers and socks and got up on his feet, his body buzzing with a pleasant ache. 

Did he overdo it last night? He knew sleeping with male omegas was a bit difficult outside their heats. The thought of Sherlock's rear aching just a bit was alluring, though, and John’s lips tugged into a smile as he stepped out of the bedroom. The hall was, for the most part, empty of debris—save for a fallen frame, the picture an artist's rendition of a series of animal skulls. Lovely. John picked up and slid back into place. The bathroom wasn’t far past that and he ducked in to take a piss.

A spiderweb crack stretched out from the mirrors center, it looked as if Sherlock had chucked something at it, or worse, hit it with his fist. John frowned at the idea and hoped that wasn’t the case. The rest of the bathroom didn’t look nearly as bad as the living room and kitchen did. John smelled the faint scent of Sherlock around the room while he did his business and pulled on his trousers and socks back on. At least most of the damage had been contained.

He found his shoes just outside the living room door and slid them on, lest he step on something sharp and bleed out all over the carpet. Once he was descent from the waist down, John set about assessing the damage of the hurricane swept room. Now that he could actually see the room in the daylight, John could see someone had attempted to straighten part of the mess, but whether it was Sherlock or whether it was done before or after John’s complaints the night before, he would never know.

John stepped over the remnants of a broken vase to the pile of books near the fireplace. He gathered a few in his hands and began slotting them back into the bookshelf as he read the titles. Chemistry books were the majority, but there were several oddities mixed in too. Oddities such as: _‘The Penguin Dictionary of Curious and Interesting Numbers’_. That one made him do a double take.

Halfway through shelving the books, John wondered why he was even bothering. He didn’t owe Sherlock anything and the git really needed to do this himself. It didn’t seem _right_ for the bastard to fuck over his own flat and leave it for someone else to clean up. 

And yet John was still tidying. A part of him knew one of the traditions – _instincts_ – of an alpha courting an omega was showing them that they can be a provider and caretaker, but John refused to think that _that_ was why he was cleaning.

It was just sentiment and common sense – no matter how much Sherlock needed to clean his own mess, John knew that might never happen. It had already been weeks and his flat was still a mess. Besides, there wasn’t anything John had planned for the day besides soap opera catch-ups, so he finished shelving the books and went on to see about sweeping up all the broken glass littered across the floor.

He had his shirt and jumper back on by the time he fixed the legs of the coffee table and turned it right side up and on the rug again. He went to straighten the sofa back against the wall when he saw the obvious lump in the seat. He pulled out a cushion and the culprit made him pause. A skull. A bloody human skull. John touched the frontal bone, then picked it up and turned it over. It certainly looked real. “What the hell, Sherlock?” John muttered aloud before he carried it over to the mantle. Something like _this_ was meant to be on display.

Everything else was just a matter of picking up and putting in the right places. Frames were hung, the ash in the fireplace was removed, clothes were dumped in a basket John found in Sherlock’s room. At some point he wondered if Sherlock would think he was creepy for doing this. He certainly didn’t expect a ‘thank you’ any time soon, but would Sherlock get upset? No, John would be lucky if Sherlock gave the room a second glance.

The kitchen was a bit trickier. The table was covered in a massive chemistry set, complete with petri dishes filled with moldy brown... things that smelled _rotten_ – John didn't want to guess how long those have been sitting out. Part of those ‘interesting’ experiments Sherlock mentioned. The floor had been cleaned of dropped cutlery and plates, but they all seemed to have found their way into the sink, unwashed. John set the drawers back into their compartments and washed the dishes. He binned the petri dishes with an enthusiastic glee, but left the beakers and bottles where they laid.

Once everything viable was cleaned, John assessed the flat around him one last time. Everything seemed to whisper bits of who the man was that lived here. The furniture, for example, looked like a mix and match of second hand purchases, but the microscope in the kitchen could easily have been worth a thousand pounds. The skull spoke eccentric, but the books on the shelves were books John might expect in a professor’s office. What could he think of the skull? Or the tidiness of his room verses the rest of his house? 

John wasn’t going to get a decent conclusions from any of this.

It was far past time to go home, in any case. He still smelled like sex and Sherlock and taking a shower here wasn’t as appealing as a shower back in his own flat. He checked his phone one last time, seeing no new notifications or missed calls – only that the phone was low on battery. Not that he expected a call from Sherlock, he never even got the omega’s number. Maybe he should leave his own, just in case Sherlock might want to repeat the experience? Friends with benefits, was that what this was? Did Sherlock even want him as a friend? In which case, John would be a ‘booty call’. John found himself hesitating for the first time since he fell into the flat the night before. The sex was fantastic, but did John really want to get himself mixed up with an addict on a regular basis?

Screw it, Sherlock knew where to find him if he really wanted to talk. With a heaving sigh, John grabbed his still damp jacket and slid out the door.

“Mr. Watson?”

John jerked his eyes up from the pavement when he heard his name. His focus settled on a large alpha man standing at attention in front of a sleek black car. John blinked, looked over the vehicle, then over the man in the suit as he opened the back seat door. 

“Please step inside.” The man droned like he was conducting some sort of business transaction.

“You’re joking, right?” John’s eyebrows raised at the open door. Inside he could just make out a woman sitting on the far seat, brown hair, dressy, texting. What?

Looking back to the ape, John considered his options. The alpha was taller than John, his shoulders broad and thick. John couldn’t take him in a flat out fight. He glanced down the street, he’d have better luck walking away. “Right,” He gave a wide, false smile, turned, and strolled away.

Two steps and his phone buzzed in his pocket. If the situation wasn’t weird enough, when he pulled his phone out and checked the caller ID, all it offered was ‘Unknown number’. He pulled it to his ear, “Hello?”

“It is in your best interest, John Watson, that you accept my invitation.” 

John stopped. He jerked the phone from his ear and checked the number again. Still unknown, bloody helpful. He pulled it back to his ear, “Who is this? How did you get my number?”

“Get in the car, John.” The stodgy voice droned. “I would hate to cause a scene.”

John’s mouth was already working on a retort when the call disconnected. He ground his teeth together instead and looked back to the car and the driver standing at the open door. What the hell was going on?


	6. A Difficult Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You knew my number,” John pointed out, the chair ignored. “You knew where to find me, you knew my _name_.” He glanced around again, the warehouse was probably emptied out just for them, ridiculous. “Who do you think you are?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

John wasn’t in the habit of accepting rides from strangers. 

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned to face the car – it was some sort of Bentley: expensive and gleaming in the mid-day sun. He'd never touched, let alone ridden in a car half as expensive as this one must be. Was he suppose to be impressed or intimidated? Honestly, all John felt was offended that someone thought they could _bully_ him. The man by the car – the driver, John guessed – was an alpha of sharp dress with enough muscle definition to ensure the jacket he wore didn’t hide the threat factor. John asked himself: why was he in this situation at all?

This could only have been Sherlock, of course. What had John gotten himself mixed up with? He looked around again, one last hope for a second option – someone he recognised or even a police officer. No such luck. There was hardly anyone out about the street and certainly no one who could later identify his last known location when his body turned up at the bottom of the Thames. _Woah, hold on_ , there was no need to get ahead of himself. He was already planning his funeral here. John wanted to laugh.

The driver cleared his throat, reminding John that he was what – on a schedule? He grimaced and approached the Bentley. Against better judgment, or any judgment at all, John growled at the driver at least a foot taller than him as he ducked into the open door. He slid into the plush leather seat and his eyes fell immediately to the woman he had only glimpsed earlier.

She was a pretty brunette with a crisp business suit and a tense, official frame. A beta by her scent, or so he thought, at first. There was a chemical smell to her that made his nose itch – suppressors, maybe? He wouldn’t be surprised. Suppressing drugs were expensive and usually reserved for military and other sensitive jobs. On the commercial market they were considered luxury items and had a price reserved for people with disposable income, with a car like this she certainly had plenty of that. 

God, he didn’t even care, that wasn’t his concern right now. The car was moving now and he needed to get back on track. “Hello?” he offered in a less than pleased tone, hoping she’d give him some bloody answers.

“Hi.” The woman chirped a replied without looking up from the Blackberry she was furiously typing on. Her smile was pleasant, but hollow.

“John Watson,” he attempted again.

“Yes, I know.” That made the hair on John’s arm stand on ends.

“Of course you do.” The door closed behind John with a solid ‘whump’ and John inhaled slowly. In the small, closed space it was painfully clear that he still smelt of equal parts Sherlock and sex. It was bold and invasive against the smells of beta and new car leather around him and John wished he'd taken that shower at Sherlock’s after all. He felt his cheeks heat up and he cleared his throat, trying his best to ignore the smell of his dirty deeds clouding the car.

“Any chance you’re going to tell me where we’re going?” John gave up on subtlety and flat out asked. They were turning north now, but he was quickly losing sight of his familiar section of London. As _spectacular_ as it was to sit beside the beta woman still smelling of _sex_ , John was anxious to be out and done with the whole charade.

“Ah?… sorry, no.” The woman gave another false smile, her eyes flickering up from the Blackberry only briefly to acknowledge John's presence.

“Can I have a name, at least?” John was grasping at straws.

“Anthea.” She answered, after a pause that was a few moments too long.

Exasperated, he sat back again and watch the outside world pass through tinted glass. He was annoyed, embarrassed, and slightly concerned for his safety, but the longer he sat there, getting led away to who knows where, the more he felt.. _excited_. This was like something out of a Bond film, and he was an MI6 agent being lead to some evil doer’s lair for Queen and Country. Deep down he knew he should be more frightened, but he wasn’t. Whatever this was, it was about Sherlock. If they wanted to kill John, there were much better ways to do it than dragging him off the streets in an expensive Bentley. So, really, all of this was just a big fat show of power, and that wasn’t frightening at all. 

When the car stop some twenty minutes later, John was practically squirming with pent up anticipation. He had attempted to get a clear answer from the allegedly beta woman, but she gave him nothing at all to work with. He wasn’t all that surprised when they stopped in front of a large warehouse. It seemed like an apt place for a criminal overlord to meet his fated enemies. Maybe he even had stacks of money and a tiger on a chain somewhere. 

When the engine shut off, John climbed out of the car before the driver dared to open his door. He slammed it behind him hard and glanced around the open ground, then to Anthea as she passed him by. When John didn’t immediately follow, she called back without glancing away from her Blackberry. “This way, Mr. Watson.”

Well, he was already here, might as well see who had gone to all the trouble of setting up the ridiculous meeting. 

He followed after the woman and remembered Sherlock. If he were here, he would know exactly what was going to happen right away, wouldn’t he? He’d have figured out a way to avoid this whole situation all together. Maybe he had, maybe that was why he was missing – ran off and leaving John to the wolves. 

The place looked as if it was still in use. There were functioning halogen lights and the lot seemed clean. When he was lead through a side door, the inside looked cared for and none of the lights were burnt out or flickering like they might in some murder mystery drama – it wasn’t raining enough for that either. He could even smell the faint odors of recent people, but he couldn't see or hear anyone, so what did that mean? John didn’t have long to mull over the questions as the beta lead him through another door and into the open grounds of the warehouse. Stacks upon stacks of boxes and crates rose towards the ceiling, but John’s attention went immediately to the well dressed man standing in front of him. A sardonic smile on his face and a brolly in his hand.

Anthea stopped at the door and when John looked back she was submerged in her Blackberry screen again. Right, he was going in solo then. He stepped forward and the scent of alpha rose from the man he was to meet— there was something downright uncomfortable about the scent and John couldn’t explain why. It was a blend of sandalwood and old books marked with the strong smells of tobacco and scotch, none of it was particularly bad, but it was _familiar_ and John couldn’t put a finger to why. It sat at the back of his mind as he stopped far enough from the man that he could have an escape, but not far enough to appear intimidated. The man held an ease in his posture that was a stark contrast to John’s stiff stance.

“John. Do have a seat,” the older man began, gesturing to the metal folding chair between the both of them. John remembered the voice over the phone. 

“You knew my number,” John pointed out, the chair ignored. “You knew where to find me, you knew my _name_.” He glanced around again, the warehouse was probably emptied out just for them, ridiculous. “Who do you think you are?” 

“Who I am is inconsequential and –”

“ _No_ ,” John flared, “You drag me all the way out here without so much as a ‘how do you do’. Who are you and why am I here?” 

The man’s smile twitched, appearing only a bit inconvenienced by the interruption. “Yes, I thought perhaps our discussion would best be held in private”, the man made a dry reply and John wondered over if he could get away with punching the bloke. He was older, maybe by ten years, but he looked like he belonged in an office building, some executive hot shot by the way he held himself, certainly not in some warehouse bullying med students.

“What could we possibly have to discuss?” 

“I suspect you’ve already come to that conclusion.” The alpha’s nostrils flared.

“Sherlock,” John resisted the embarrassed heat growing across his face, knowing straight away that the man could smell what they had done the night before. “What about him?” 

“What are your intentions?” John tensed at those words, the man’s expression hadn’t changed, but he suddenly seemed more… more intense than before, more on edge. John suddenly felt that he was far more dangerous than the muscle man driving the Bentley.

“With Sherlock? I hardly know him.” And it was true. They’d barely known each other. They had dinner, they chatted, they had a good night. That didn’t mean he knew anything about him, who his family was, what his dreams were, his last name, hell, he still didn’t know what Sherlock did for a living: sometimes uni work.

“And yet you were happy to crawl into his bed last night.” The alpha's smile turned bitter, it didn't meet his eyes. 

“Who are you, exactly?” John’s voice dropped, but he resisted the growl that threatened to rumble up. Something told him he didn’t want to start a fight with this guy, as much as it would please him.

“Just an interested party.” He waved off the question again, “Sherlock can be such trouble, sometimes. I do worry about him.”

John glanced around the both of them, eying the empty room. Seriously, who was this man? He was powerful. He had more control than anyone else John had ever met. If he was mixed up with Sherlock, did that mean he had something to do with the cocaine? “Why are you interested? Who is he to you?”

“He would call me an enemy. His arch enemy, in fact.” The man was talking like he was discussing the weather. “He has such a flair for the dramatics.”

John eyed the man again. He didn’t look like a drug dealer, but what about a criminal organization sort? _Good God_ , John was certainly fucked. How did Sherlock get himself mixed up with people like this? Did he belong to some crime syndicate? Did he owe people money? Piss off the wrong mob boss? “Whatever me and Sherlock do is our business alone,” he finally managed to bite out.

“I’m sure you would like to think that.”

“Piss off.”

The alpha raised his eyebrows, “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“Should I be?” John gave a tight, hard smile. So far the man hadn’t threatened him beyond the not so veiled show of power. Was it worth killing John for whatever control he had over Sherlock? Was this some threat to send John away? Why? 

The man chuckled, “that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

That brought a frown back to John’s face.

“I am prepared to offer you a monthly sum.”

“What?” John’s expression shuttered, where the hell did that come from? “Why?”

“Because your dwindling savings account will not last you another year.”

John bristled, how did he know? “For what?”

“Nothing you aren’t comfortable with, I simply want you to inform me of Sherlock’s actions whenever he contacts you.”

Not if, when. “No”, John hissed out.

“I haven’t told you the amount.” The alpha tapped his brolly on the concrete floor, his attention more on it than John, but John hoped he had surprised the alpha.

“Doesn’t matter, not interested.”

The man’s sharp eyes returned to John and regarded him. When he looked away, John could almost feel the weight of that icy stare lift, “You are the first to attend university in your family.”

John’s eyes narrowed.

“It would be a shame if you were forced to leave. You do thrive here in London.”

John raised his gaze to stare at the ceiling as he saw red. How _dare_ this bastard. “Right.” He growled as he turned around. There were no attempts to stop him as he stormed past the beta and kept marching out the side door. If he had stayed, he knew he would have hit the man for sure and _that_ would not have ended well for John. Likely he'd have found himself on his back showing his submission to the arrogant sod for his trouble. The very idea made his face hot and his blood boil.

The car was still there, maybe it was meant to take John home – or cart him off somewhere to be shot. He stomped right past it and headed for the pavement.

He was almost at the bottom of the road when he remembered he had no bloody idea where the hell he was. It had taken almost a half hour to get here too. _Damn_. He eyed the street name at a crossing speculatively before he went hunting for an underground station. The cost was worth it to avoid another talk with _that man_.

* * *

John was still pissed off when he got home over an hour later. The front door slammed behind him and he stripped the entire way to the bathroom, leaving the clothes where they dropped. He felt humiliated – he could swear the entire underground was inundated with the stench of dirty deeds after the trek he had to take to get back home. Three bloody changeovers and everyone in the last carriage could smell him by the time his final stop arrived – and that was an accomplishment with how horrid the underground usually smelled. 

This was all that posh alpha prick's fault. Who the hell did he think he was? John growled low at the memory; it was doing him no good, he was already working himself up again. With a final sneer, John tried to push the images of the bastard down deep into a pocket of hate while he twisted the shower knobs and dove under the hot spray.

But really, why did that man approach John of all people? Why had he propositioned him with money? To spy? He hardly knew Sherlock, surely there were better people to get answers from than him.

His attempts to forget the despicable introduction of Mr. Corleone had failed utterly. Despite the warmth of the shower and the chance to scrub his skin clean, John was a bundle of nerves by the time he left the bathroom and collapsed onto his bed. He was bloody stressed, he wanted to sleep the whole afternoon off, but at the same time he wanted to jump up and work off the excitement buzzing under his skin. He wished he had gotten the omega’s number now, that way he could call Sherlock up and rant until he was blue in the face. _Holy shit_ , he wanted to scream, _What have you gotten me into?_

John did not want to get involved with any kingpin drug lords.

John ran through the morning’s events over and over again as he rolled in bed, too frustrated to sleep. At some point he remembered his phone and got up to fish it out of discarded clothes. It died at some point on his way home so he plugged it in and turned it on. Maybe he could call Mike and get some impartial advice. Hell, maybe he should call the police. Would that help? Probably just make things worse.

He jumped when his phone buzzed in his hands

A new message. The number wasn’t saved in his contacts and for a heart stopping moment he thought it was the alpha prick again. Opening the message, though, brought a startling lurch to his heart rate.

_Come at once, if convenient - SH_

Unknown number, SH?... Sherlock? John stared at the text, demanding it tell him what it meant. A second text came in seconds after, this one was an address.

John wrinkled his nose and texted back

_Sherlock?_

He laid back on the bed because _fuck him_ if he thinks he’s going to jump at his call.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH_

John huffed at the text. He was deliberately being annoying.

_Could be dangerous - SH_

John just stared at his phone. Dangerous? What was Sherlock getting into that was dangerous? Stealing cars? Breaking into houses? Robbing stores? As much as John hated the idea of Sherlock with a drug habit, he couldn’t really picture the omega acting out any of those scenarios. He didn’t seem like a petty criminal.

Maybe John just didn’t know Sherlock that well. Maybe everything John liked about Sherlock was actually just his own desires projected onto an omega he met in heat.

John let out a sigh. He knew he was wavering. It was madness, he should stay and sleep off this whole day – tomorrow the world would be right again. John closed his eyes and counted to ten. That done, he cursed and lugged himself out of bed. 

He was only going because he had nothing better to do; he didn’t want to sleep anyways. If Sherlock was getting himself into trouble, maybe John could talk it out of him. Maybe he could get some bloody answers about the drug lord too. He was Sherlock's _arch-enemy_ after all.

* * *

John had himself dressed and scarfing down half a marmite sandwich before he was out the door again, checking his phone – battery barely clinging to life. The address wasn’t far from there, thank god, he didn’t have the cash for it. While he walked, John tried to come up with a reason why Sherlock had texted him. Admittedly, John was thrilled that the omega had contacted him despite his disappearance that morning – apparently after snatching John’s number out of his phone. 

So Sherlock was still thinking about him. Enough to invite him along for what? Help? Fun? An audience? Whatever it was, he believed Sherlock: it could be dangerous.

The address lead him to a block of flats, though Sherlock hadn’t given him a flat number to follow. It didn’t look like a drug den, nor did it seem special or outstanding or.. anything. It just looked like a regular building. John walked up to the entrance and eyed the labels next to the buzzers, but nothing stood out and he wasn’t about to push everyone and ask if they knew a scrawny omega named Sherlock.

Great, what now? John stepped away from the front door and went left to circle the building. Just when he thought he should text Sherlock again for instruction, he caught sight of the familiar mop of hair in the corner of his eye. The omega was settled on a stoop leading up to a maintenance door, lounging against the wall with a cigarette between his lips. 

“Hey,” John called as he stepped up the stoop steps, trying to keep his expression schooled when those watercolor eyes rose to meet his. _Remember, John_ , he scolded himself, _you’re suppose to be angry_. He managed to glare at Sherlock while the omega’s eyes flickering over John like he was an open book. “Well? I’m here.” 

“So you are.” A trail of smoke rose over him in a cloud as he puffed out the lungful. “And?”

John blinked. “You texted me.” He touched his pocket, ready to prove it with the damn message. “If this was some sort of joke, I swear, I – “

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock spoke over the beginnings of John’s rant, “I require your assistance.”

John took a moment to breathe out through his nose. He glanced around the both of them, but there was nothing noteworthy to see. “Assistance? I’m your assistant now, am I? What is this, Sherlock?”

“The building.” Sherlock drew another long pull from his cigarette as he glowered. “There is a flat I need to examine. I need your help.”

“Examine? Why?” Well there went John’s notion that Sherlock was above breaking and entering. The way he said it though, ‘examine’, what did that mean? John was just about to say no. Why would Sherlock think John would willingly help him break into a flat? 

What Sherlock said next made John really think twice about everything he thought he knew about the omega named Sherlock.

“There’s been a _murder_ , John.”


	7. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, maybe the woman was right, but John knew one thing for certain, whether she was right or not: he was done with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

“You’re serious? No. You _can’t_ be serious,” John scowled at the look Sherlock was giving him, a _you are being moronic right now_ look that wasn’t helping John understand the situation any better – he wasn’t a bloody mind reader!

“In flat 5-A, I need your assistance to –” 

“Sherlock, you’re not serious! If someone’s been murdered, then we need to call the police, we’ve got to– I don’t know – _Jesus_.” He made a reach for his phone. The police would know what to do, but how would he explain how Sherlock knew about the body – how _did_ Sherlock know about the body? He’d think of something. He –

“No, you misunderstand,” Sherlock snapped impatiently. He snatched at John’s wrist and the leather of his gloves was bloody cold. How long had he been standing out here? “The murder is old news. The police left a half hour ago – after ruining the crime scene with incompetence, I’m sure.”

“What?” John let his arm fall slack and Sherlock released him in favour of nursing his cigarette. John was completely flat-footed here, not the first time that’s happened with Sherlock, “So… you’re telling me you want to break into a dead man’s home?” John shook his head, “For what, exactly?”

“Dead _woman_ , but yes,” Sherlock’s eyes briefly crinkled when he smiled a sharp, pointed smile, “I must see the crime scene, or what’s left of it.”

“Why the hell would you want to do that?” 

Sherlock’s smile vanished. He whirled past John and stalked down onto the pavement, speaking all the while, “John, it’s a case! A mystery! If I can see the crime scene, I could solve it ten times faster than Lestrade and his team of –”

“ _Lestrade_?” John hissed out, “The omega from the night I saved your stupid arse? What does he have to do with any of this?”

“Why do you have to be such an idiot, John?” Sherlock snapped, cold, watercolor eyes boring holes from over the omega’s shoulder, “Lestrade is the detective inspector working the case. He refuses to let me into the flat even though he _knows_ I could have solved it by now!”

John watched the omega work himself up into a state, as if explaining the situation was an insult to his very being. Did he expect John to just up and follow him without question when he texted? Well, to be fair that wasn’t a far stretch. John had willingly jumped into his bed without much protest just the night before. This was a bit different, though. He just wanted to understand why he should be helping an unstable omega break into a dead woman’s flat – was that so much to ask? 

What did he mean, anyways? _Could_ Sherlock really find a killer? Anyone else and John would have called them mad, but Sherlock was different, he saw things no one else did, he continued to prove that in the entire short span John had known him. Did it work on crime scenes too? Sherlock was studying chemistry, was he some crime scene investigator in training? Working with a DI named Lestrade? That would explain why they knew each other. That probably meant Lestrade wasn’t the best guy to call when he found Sherlock high and in heat. Oh well, Sherlock hadn’t had a say in the matter.

So did this mean he had been suspended? Some rookie in training booted out because of a drug problem? That would explain why he wasn’t allowed on the crime scene. Was John filling in the pieces or was he grasping at straws?

Better get back to the matter at hand.

It was more than curiosity now, maybe Sherlock was right and, if so, John wanted to help. He thought back to the man named Lestrade, the DI who came for Sherlock when he needed help, even though he knew about the drugs. John wondered if they were friends in some way, outside of work. Or was Lestrade filling some dutiful role. An officer of the law and a junkie made a very odd pair to mingle. There must be a history there John wasn't seeing.

Sherlock plunged into a tense quiet when they reach the front entrance of the flat block, his cigarette dropped and crushed under toe. Whilst John hadn’t officially agreed to help, it seemed like Sherlock was moving right along with whatever plan he had cooked up. John didn’t need to let this be some habit: Sherlock lead and he played catch up – he really should be more upset with the idea than he actually was. 

Eyeing the list of names on the intercoms, he remembered the flat Sherlock had mentioned earlier, 5-A. The name listed beside the number was ‘Thomson', “How do you plan on getting in? Know anyone?” He glanced to Sherlock, who merely past him one of those looks again.

“Don’t be dull, John,” he dismissed the question in favour of selecting one of the flats to buzz, 3-A – V. Trent. Sherlock had an idea, and John wanted to see how far it got him.

Silence stretched on and John was just about to suggest they find a different flat to buzz when a woman’s voice came over the speaker, “Hello?”

“Hello!” The noise that came out of Sherlock in that moment was so frightfully different that John nearly jumped away from the invader wearing Sherlock skin. He stared at the abomination that had suddenly possessed the moody omega. “I’m sorry to bother. I'm a friend of Franklin, in 2-A”, John glanced down to the name plate, 'Jones', then shot back up to Sherlock's shockingly open expression, “He told me all about that dreadful.. that _murder_ ,” his voice dropped conspiratorially. He sounded like a bloody gossip hen, “He called me over and now he isn't answering the buzzer!”

“Oh! Do you think he's all right?” The woman on the other end had no idea of the act Sherlock was shamming at that moment. He stared openly and hopefully at the buzzer, his expression lax and his eyes a bit wider than usual. He wasn't even standing the same, instead he was leaning just a bit to his right, bracing his weight upon a hand against the wall. The pose made him seem a bit awkward in the leather jacket, but John could see the concerned friend Sherlock was pretending to be. 

“He might be having a nap and can't hear the buzzer? Normally, I'd just be pissed, but after all he said... I was hoping I could try banging on his door?” His head dipping against a shrugged shoulder.

“Yes, I understand, that business with the Thomsons? Dreadful. Sarah was such a sweet girl,” The woman was getting reeled in and she didn't even see it, “You need me to buzz you in?”

“Please? That would be wonderful.” The man chirped gleefully.

The buzz followed and the door was unlocked. There was no ‘thank you’ to come when the persona enchanting Sherlock crumbled away with a twitch of his lips and a triumphant glance back to John. He raised both his eyebrows to the omega and followed behind as Sherlock slipped into the hallway. 

At least John made sure they were out of earshot of the intercom before he spoke again. “That was amazing, I almost believed you could be _nice_.” Sherlock’s smile returned as he lead the way to the lift, John right on his tail. “How'd you know Franklin's name?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked all like a moody teenager doing it. It was heart-wrenchingly endearing, “Police investigation. His name was mentioned between the officers outside the block. I happened to overhear. Didn’t matter, she didn’t know his name.”

“Right, of course... Fine, I’ll help,” John wanted to speak up before they got too deep into this ‘investigation’. “But this is crazy, you realise that, right? I’m fairly sure you can get into deep shit for tampering with a crime scene. Christ, you’re acting like you do this all the time.”

“Lestrade requires my help, on occasion, when the police are out of their depth,” Sherlock offered while they waited for the lift to drop. His expression shift to a small scowl, “At least, he use to.”

Did that mean Sherlock didn’t officially work for the police? Was he someone that got invited to the crime scenes? Wasn’t that illegal? John gave Sherlock a curious glance. He could be lying, but why would he? Whatever the case may be, they didn’t have a leg to stand on. What they were doing now was definitely illegal.

“And isn’t it worth the risk to put a murderer behind bars?” 

Sherlock seemed to know exactly how to poke at John’s bleeding heart. John surrendered his last plea against what they were about to do. Yes, this was for the greater good. Given Sherlock could live up to his claims. The doors of the lift opened and he followed the tall omega in. “Thomson, that was what the flat label said.”

“Yes. Abigail and Sarah Thomson,” Sherlock offered as he watched the numbers change over the door, “Alpha and omega, Sarah was found stabbed to death upon Abigail’s return from work. The house was ransacked and the police believe it was a robbery gone wrong, imbeciles.”

“Hold on, how do you know, if you weren’t allowed to help?” John puzzled when the lift chimed their floor. He quickly followed after the omega when he stalked out and down the hall.

“Again, I overheard the police discussing the scene outside while they were destroying evidence here, I have five theories,” the omega waved off any further questions with a flutter of a hand. His attention fell completely on the door in question – 5-A. It had to be locked.

“Five theories? Five? About a murderer?” John had to know, “Sounds like you’ve already got this in the bag; why exactly do you need me?” 

The omega ignored him in favour of the small leather pouch he had just pulled from his pocket. Flipping it open revealed a set of long metal tools John recognised instantly, “Jesus, you’re just a pandora’s box, aren’t you?” He huffed out as he watched the man begin picking the lock.

None the wiser on why he was there, John favored the wall opposite the door and kept watch for anyone coming or going. It took less than a half a minute for the latch to turn and for Sherlock to right himself once more. The omega glanced back to John as he swung the door open, a self-satisfied smirk etched across his face. John could only grin back because yes, that _was_ amazing.

The grin quickly vanished when they let themselves inside the flat for the first time. The living room was a mess of Sherlock proportions and there was a pungent smell of bleach that made John’s eyes water a bit. He stopped just inside the door and held his hand over his nose. He’d heard of this happening on television shows: the smell of bleach covered up a criminal’s scent pretty damn well. There was a draft – the windows had been opened, but there hadn’t been enough time to clear out the stink. “Smells awful in here; it’s a mess too, you sure it wasn’t just a break-in? They really wrecked the place.”

“One.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He seemed to believe any further reaction to the stink was beneath him. “Only one person did this and it wasn’t a break-in, this was done to cover the truth.”

John stuffed his hands into his coat pocket, unwilling to chance the trouble he’d be in if they somehow lift his fingerprints from the room. That's how it worked, didn’t it? Of course, he’d never been to an actual crime scene so he was just working off films and TV programmes. It was better to be safe than sorry; Sherlock didn’t have the same reserve though. He was picking through the mess and lifting things left and right to examine them – good thing he was still wearing gloves. God, and this was only the second weirdest thing to happen today.

“Fuck,” John bit out when the memory came up and slapped him in the face: Mr. Drug Lord, how had John forgotten about him so easily? He looked up to see Sherlock giving him a curious glance, “Just remembered,” John frowned, “met an enemy of yours today.”

“Oh? Who?” Sherlock lost interest in the conversation almost instantly. Funny, one would think that would provoke some attention. Instead, Sherlock took more care investigating a bookshelf.

“Don’t know, he said he was your arch-enemy,” John offered, “Looked like a right arse.”

That brought a soft snicker from Sherlock, “Yes. He is. I know exactly who you mean and he is _not_ my problem right now.”

“Sherlock, he kidnapped me,” John huffed a bit, how could he just write this off?

“Did he offer you money?” 

“What?... Yeah, he did.” So this wasn’t a one off.

“And did you take it?”

“Of course not,” John snapped back.

“Pity, you could have used it,” That was… god, that was insane. Did John actually hear him right? He might have asked Sherlock to repeat himself, but the man had moved beyond his evidently trivial _arch-enemy_ and began chattering about the case once more.

“Abigail works at Harrison Law,” Sherlock began without prompt as he looked back over the living room. It seemed like he was developing the story, so John gave up and didn’t try to interrupt. This wasn’t over by a long shot though, “Sarah worked part time child-minding for local parents.” Sherlock set down picture frame dropped on the ground and made his way towards the kitchen.

“They had no children of their own. Sarah was barren, but they were considering adoption.” Sherlock sniffed around the sink before he started digging in the cabinets, “They were disgustingly happy, Abigail wasn’t the murderer. Three theories.”

“You figure that all out on your own, or did you eavesdrop?” John asked, following the man to the kitchen. Sherlock waved John’s question off with a wave of his hand, but at the very least it prompted him to continue.

“They were close to family, especially Sarah’s side. Mother and brother – twin – omega,” Sherlock gestured towards something in the living room, but John couldn’t really pinpoint where, so he pretended he did and nodded. Sherlock had turned away then and headed deeper into the flat and, after a moment’s hesitation, John followed.

Together they made their way down the hall and through the last door – closed when they arrived, but Sherlock stormed in without a second thought. The very moment John stepped in behind Sherlock he was accosted with the smell of a foreign omega – in heat. _What the fuck_?

The weight of the situation hit John hard – he was smelling the heat of a very _dead_ omega. The horror sent him recoiling back into the hall, but he’d only made it a step back before he was nabbed by his arm and dragged back into the horrible fog. “Sherlock?! What the _hell_ are you doing?!” 

“I want you to focus, John, your nose is very important to me right now,” his voice was calm and centered – a placid lake – compared to the panic rising in John’s tone.

“Jesus, Sherlock, this woman is dead! I’m not about to start wanking to –”

“Are you?” Sherlock bit through John’s panic.

“Sherlock, I-I can’t believe –” John shuttered, his eyes closing as he tried to focus. The smell was there, lovely and strong, but it wasn’t like it had been with Sherlock. He wasn’t actually desperate to stick his cock in the nearest hole. No, in fact, he felt rather turned off and ill at the idea. Even if she was a bound omega, he shouldn’t have this sort of reaction. Was it because she was dead? He stared up at Sherlock in utter confusion, “What’s happening?”

“Her heats weren’t functioning properly, she was barren,” he was the perfect picture of composure and John wanted to shove him over for it. “It’s standard protocol for police to keep alphas out of murder scenes like this, and everyone else in masks, but they miss crucial evidence every time!” He seemed personally affronted by the notion, and John stared blankly up at him.

“Is that why I’m here? Arsehole, you could have warned me,” John’s voice shook. He reached up and grabbed Sherlock’s arms when the omega tried to move away. Fuck _that_. Sherlock wasn’t leaving him.

“ _Focus_ , John, What do you smell?”

“An omega in heat.” John snapped out, glaring at the manipulative fuck. He knew something like this would happen. Not even a word of warning.

“Yes, thank you, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,” Sherlock drawled, eyes rolling.

“What are you expecting from me?” John shook his head, he didn’t understand what ‘evidence’ Sherlock insisted was there and he wasn’t sure he want to. His stomach was starting to twist at all the smells coming out of the woodwork. There was danger here, the smell of fear and death rose up over the sting of bleach and his brain was screaming at him to take the omega he had in his arms and run for it. He reached up and brushed away the half formed tears instead.

“You may not be in a frenzy, but the pheromones will heighten your senses.” Sherlock’s voice was ever insistent, “I want you to find what those idiot Yarders couldn’t, so close your eyes and _tell me_ what you smell.”

Sherlock tugged back and John released him with reluctance. Favouring the wall near the door, he leant against it while he carded a hand through his hair. He inhaled deeply and surrendered to the uncomfortable situation he’d found himself in. 

“Bleach. A lot of it. And Blood,” John grimaced, “Sherlock, I –”

“Yes, she was stabbed in here, by a pair of her own sewing scissors. The carpet is stained on the other side of the bed. What else.”

This was giving John a headache, and fast. “Ah.. An alpha, bonded with the omega, a bunch of others too. I don’t know what you’re expecting, It's.. hang on.” John wrinkled his nose and took in another deep breath. When the smell didn’t clear he moved closer to the bed. Ah, there it was. “Another omega’s been here recently.. it smells a lot like the woman’s so I missed –”

“I _knew_ it” Sherlock was celebrating even before it was completely out of John’s mouth, “It was Sarah’s fraternal twin.”

“What? You said they were close to him.” John opened his eyes and looked back to Sherlock, “Just because his smell is here –”

“You simply confirmed a long list of suspicions,” Sherlock waved off John’s shock, “Proof is what I needed. Sarah and her alpha have always been friends with her brother. In fact, there are pictures scattered around the apartment depicting them at different ages. They’ve been friend since primary.”

While Sherlock explained everything in rapid succession, he started digging through the different drawers in the room. John didn’t much appreciate the lack of care Sherlock was taking and he fought the urge to go and wrestle him out of the room.

“His motives for remaining close were not for friendship though, he is unbonded, correct?” Sherlock shot John a demanding look and John forced a nod. His gut twisted again and he was certain he was going to throw up right in the middle of the crime scene. Crouching down against the wall, John tried to ease his protesting body while Sherlock ranted on. “He hasn’t found an alpha for himself. He was stuck on Abigail. Unrequited love. Sickening. It must have really stung when Abigail picked his poor, broken sister over him. He should have been the obvious choice – he was jealous.”

“So what,” John grumbled miserably, “a lot of people are jealous, that doesn’t mean they go around killing people, especially not their flesh and blood.”

“Jealousy is a fairly popular reason to kill, John,” Sherlock’s smile was arrogant and proud. The sod didn’t even care that John was going to be sick on the carpet. “But no, something changed. Sarah must have kept him close – went to him for support during her crippled heats. Ah!”

Sherlock leapt up from his search, brandishing a set of papers that must have been tucked under an overturned night stand he’d been searching, “And here it is. They were approved for adoption. His broken sister and the love of his life were about to have a perfect family and it was just too much.”

“So she made the announcement and he killed her?”

“Yes… No,” Sherlock’s tone suddenly changed, he was uncertain now and John lifted his gaze to the omega, watching his expression turn into a frustrated scowl. “There was something else. Something _more_. What is it?” Sherlock dug through the poor couple’s wardrobe and John dropped his head into his hands again.

“That.. was bloody brilliant, Sherlock, but can we please just leave now? This place… it isn’t safe.” _Not to mention it's putting my head through a blender_. Despite John’s pleas, the bumping and moving didn’t end. Again John felt the stress of his muscles needing to spring, he forced down the urge to drag Sherlock away once more and instead focused on keeping his lunch in his stomach.

It wasn’t until several minutes later that he realized the room had gone quiet.

“Sherlock?” He picked up his head and looked around the room, pushing himself to his feet when he couldn’t see the omega. Checking the wardrobe, then the bathroom, revealed nothing. Had he run off without telling John? _Again? At a crime scene_? 

He escaped the room’s fog of hormones in a stumble and braced himself in the hall to take in some much needed breaths. They all smelled like bleach, but god he didn’t even care right now. The front door to the flat opened and John snapped out, “Sherlock, I swear to god,” he stomped his way to the living room. “If you just walked out, I –”

What he found was certainly _not_ Sherlock. What he found were two uniformed officers looking at him as if he just walked in with his head cut off. _Oh, shit_!

“Don’t move,” one commanded with a hand on his baton, “hands on your head. Now.”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, I was just – I’m not actually–” John babbled helplessly as he raised his hands. This was wrong, horribly wrong. Fuck, he was going to be accused of murder and he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison and _where_ the _hell_ was Sherlock?

“Hands on your head. Now!” The man was shouting now, there was no way they were going to listen. He was fucked.

“Look, please, just hear me out, I’m here with a friend –” He pressed his hands on his head and flinched when they jumped at him, grabbing his arms, tugging his hands down and cuffing them behind his back. Beta’s the both of them. How could he explain himself? They were going to lock him up. 

Someone was talking, but John was just trying not to _bolt_. He couldn’t believe it. It _couldn’t_ be happening. Sherlock dragged him in here and _abandoned_ him when he was done. Why? And more importantly: why did John go along with it at all?

* * *

John sat alone in a holding cell for the first time in his entire life. His head was pounding and his stomach was turning with dread. They had dropped him there almost an hour earlier after finding no one else in the flat with him. Whatever happened to Sherlock, it was clear he wasn’t interested in clearing John’s good name. He tried explaining on the way, but neither officers were interested in hearing what John had to say. Fuck. What was he suppose to do now? 

John jumped when he heard his name at the bars – he hadn’t even heard the guy approach. “Huh? Yeah?”

“Get up, you’re going to interrogation,” the man stated rather stiffly as he unlocked the cell. John was lead to a small room that looked a little too much like the one’s he’d seen in films. A table and two chairs sat in the centre with a door and a mirror along one wall. The officer pushed him down in the seat and John went without complaint. What did they expect him to say? God, if they didn’t listen now…

The very idea of going through this nightmare was almost enough to send John spiralling into a panic. He dropped his head onto the table and covered it with both hands, “someone, kill me now.”

The door opened again some time later – John lost track – and he jerked his head back, eyes zeroing in on a surprisingly familiar face. It was him! It was.. oh what was his name, “Lestrade!”

“John.” The man gave him a tight lipped smile as he settled down in the chair across the table. He looked tired, but not pissed off or upset like John was imagining. Maybe he would understand. “So you’re John Watson. I didn’t expect to meet you again. Least not like this.”

“You have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this, I –”

“Hey, relax. Sherlock dragged you into this, yeah?” Lestrade’s smile became a bit more real and for the first time in an hour John felt his panic began to recede.

“Did he tell you? He was with me, but then he disappeared. He figured out who the murderer was, it was -”

“The brother? Sherlock texted earlier. He didn’t mention you, though.” 

That felt like big slap in the face. Sherlock had bothered to inform on the murderer, but did nothing to help John? He felt his entire career was circling the drain before it even started.

“Hey, calm down. Don’t look so wrecked, you’re fine. I’ve got some CCTV footage of you in the tubes when the murder occurred,” Lestrade’s words offered hope, “you were with Sherlock, I get it. He was a right arse, leaving you like that.”

John burst into a half hysterical giggle, “Yeah, no kidding. Oh my god, are you’re saying –”

“I’m going to let you off with a warning. You don’t have a record and you helped the kid out the other night,” Lestrade paused when John practically melted with relief. The DI smiled a bit, then shook his head as he leaned forward, folding his hands together over his files, “Listen, what you did was in no way legal. Be careful what you let Sherlock get away with. He’ll chew you up and spit you out and not think twice about it so don’t let him push you around.”

“Right.” John groaned, the betrayal was bloated, ugly and hard deep in his gut. Sherlock had left him without a word of warning – no, he dragged John into that nightmare without warning first, then he left. He didn’t care about John. He just used him as a nose. He just walked away and John was left looking like a complete and utter imbecile for trusting him.

“Cheer up.” Lestrade climbed to his feet and dropped a hand on John’s shoulder, “You’re not in trouble and you did help the investigation. Just... don’t do it again.”

The tease fell flat and John nodded, pushing himself up when Lestrade went to the door, “Thank you, Lestrade, for understanding.”

“Call me Greg,” Lestrade offered a hand to shake and John took it, “This isn’t the first time Sherlock’s caused trouble and it won’t be the last. Just be careful, yeah?”

John could only nod again. He had never been so utterly mortified before. He just wanted to slink home and never come out from under the covers again. He left Lestrade, Greg, with directions back to the front desk. He kept his head down and pretended not to notice when an officer or two turned and watched him pass.

He claimed his things at the window, signing paperwork with half glances and hoping to escape this embarrassment without another incident. 

“So you’re the newest pet Freak been dragging around.” 

No such luck. 

John tensed at those words. He turned to see a plain clothed, dark skinned woman with tight curls. Her stance said ‘back off’ and she was definitely an alpha. The woman looked him up and down while John slid his jacket over his shoulders, “Excuse me?”

“Your story’s all over the office now, heard you turned up right in the middle of a crime scene,” her smile was a bit cruel and vindictive when it appeared and John tried to ignore it as he stuffed his once again dead phone in his pocket.

She was clearly trying to start a fight, puffing up alpha arrogance to prove some point she believed in; or maybe she just wanted to make him feel like a piece of shit. He turned without another word and made a break for the front doors.

“Hey, hang on.” She grabbed his arm and he froze, gaze shooting back to her with more of a challenge in his eyes, “A word of advice, mate: get as far away from Sherlock as you can. The freak doesn’t have friends and he definitely doesn’t have feelings. You’re just the latest in a long line of poor souls he’s got on with.”

John jerked his arm free from her grip and she lifted her hand’s as a show of peace.

“Best take this whole fiasco,” she gestured around them, “as a sign.”

John didn’t think he had the stomach to respond. He muttered his goodbye and retreated out the door. Only when he was out on the pavement did he let himself breathe deep again. That could have gone so much better – no, that shouldn’t gone at all. Who the hell did Sherlock think he was? 

God, maybe the woman was right, but John knew one thing for certain, whether she was right or not: he was done with Sherlock.


	8. Get the Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s finger hovered over the send. It wasn’t anything spectacular for a text, but it felt like he was standing at the crossroads. He could send it and find out why Sherlock had been sending all those messages, or he could ignore it like all the others and just count this moment as a weak point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

John woke the next morning to the chime of his text message alert. His bedside table lit up with the blue glow of his mobile’s screen and rumbled with the phone’s vibration. _One new message_. John squinted blearily at the device until the light faded and the room went quiet. Whoever they were, they could wait. He closed his eyes and wilfully tried to summon up sleep once more. 

The bloody alert chimed at him again, only seconds later. Who the hell was texting him at… what time was it, even?

John pressed his palm against an eye, rubbing at the film that blurred the world into unreal half dreams; a dull ache loomed behind his sinuses, reminding him of the day before. He could still smell the hints of bleach lingering after the second shower he took before bed. He scrunched up his tired face and read out the bold green lines of his digital clock; 5:55 AM, far too early for texting. 

He rolled onto his side and grappled with the phone, sending it clattering across the surface of the table before he could catch it in clumsy fingers. The charger offered brief resistance until he severed the connection with a yank. The screen flared to life and John squinted at the message notification of the two texts he’d failed to check in the last two minutes.

The number wasn’t saved in his contacts. Already he had an inkling to whom it might be. The first text read:

_The brother attempted to flee the city. The police are idiots. - SH_

The second followed by saying:

_Found him attempting to board a train. - SH_

John scoffed into the predawn gloom. Was Sherlock trying to _show off_? Suddenly yesterday’s fiasco came flooding back with vengeance and John let out an embarrassed groan at the horrid memories. He wasn’t the sort that got arrested — that just didn’t happen to him. He was the sensible one, the one who went to university and the one who was going to make something of himself no matter what. Drug lords and addicts didn’t factor into his life and he _wouldn’t_ throw everything away on some careless, stupid adventure. There was just too much at stake. 

Letting himself get caught up in the rush shouldn’t have happened in the first place; the moment Sherlock said _danger_ he should have turned and walked the other way. He had been excited, thrilled even at the idea of helping the omega at a murder scene. Yes, he had been apprehensive, but he let Sherlock convince him regardless. It must have been the boredom of the holiday getting to him, that was the only excuse and he had paid for his lack of judgement in the end.

He almost lost everything and here Sherlock was: gloating at his success. John mashed out a reply.

_Fuck you._

He frowned, finger hovering over the send button. It was blunt, yes, but not what he really wanted to say – okay, yes, it was one of the many things he wanted to say, loudly, but it didn’t seem like the _right_ thing to say. He could just imagine Sherlock reading the message and rolling his eyes like the bored, spoilt child he was. The message was erased and he thought a bit longer before he typed out a new one.

_How did you get out of the flat?_

Less angry than Sherlock deserved, but maybe it would prompt an apology from the bloody git. At the very least, John could figure out how he had got past the police without detection. Getting past John would have been a piece of cake in the state he was in, but there was no way he could have strolled right past the pair of policemen coming in from the hall. 

dropping the phone onto his chest, he glanced over to his alarm clock. Maybe he could do with a few more –

Oh – oh no wait, it was New Year’s day, wasn’t it? After all the chaos the day before, he’d completely forgotten the day by the time he’d dragged himself home from New Scotland Yard. He’d taken a shower and gone straight to bed. New Year’s Eve he’d meant to call his sister, hoping to circumvent the binge she’d fall into ‘celebrating’. They hadn’t spoken since she left that drunken message on his voicemail on Christmas Day and he’d just been putting it off ever since.

With dread hanging over his head, he dialled Harry’s number; it didn’t ring at all before the voicemail picked up and her chipper greeting was all John got for his trouble. He bit down on his apprehension and left a quick message, asking her to give him a call. Maybe he’d hear from her before the end of the day. 

When he hung up, there was a new message waiting for him:

_Down the fire escape. - SH_

John grunted at his phone as if it itself had personally affronted him. Not an apology in sight and not likely to show up anytime soon. The fire escape, why hadn’t he thought of that?

Because thats not what normal people do. 

John dropped the phone on the bed and climbed off the side. There was no time to deal with this mess now, he'd forgotten completely that he had work this morning, he hadn't even set his alarm and he was late for work already.

* * *

John inched through the back door of the coffee shop half an hour late for his opening shift. The usual sounds of the coffee machines came in from the front as he hastily threw his jacket into his locker and dashed to wash his hands. The morning rush was in full swing by the time he met Fred at the counter; the beta man looked a bit flustered, but at the sight of John, he cried with relief, not anger. “Oh, John, thank god, I’ve ruined three orders already and it’s barely past six!”

“Sorry,” he offered a quick apology, “slept through the bloody alarm this morning.” It was a small but plausible fib in place of a story John had no interest in sharing. Hell, the whole mess yesterday almost sounded too farfetched to be believable anyway. 

He shoved those thoughts out of the way and took the next customer’s order while Fred eased out of his frantic, edgy state. The beta was a nice guy most days, but he didn’t handle stress all that well on his own. It made John wonder how he’d got himself into a dentistry degree.

John offered an ear as usual while Fred went on to vent over the next semester. Classes were just around the bend and Fred was worried over his last semester’s grades. John’s came out grander than he’d hoped they’d be and he was going into the next semester on good terms. That, at least, was something to look forward to. 

The shift ended without incident just before the lunch rush, after hours of Fred’s constant fussing. The guy likely didn’t realise he was being such a killjoy, but after a while John just wanted to shake the man and tell him to just suck it up and deal with it. He only just escaped the front room and Fred’s chatter about an ex when he heard Molly calling from the back door.

“Afternoon!”

“Hey, Molly,” John waved while he struggled to escape his apron ties, “have a good New Years?”

“Oh, yeah,” She grinned while she pushed her bag and coat into the narrow locker, “had a night in watching films with some friends. What about you?”

“Not very exciting, really,” another fib. John tossed his apron onto the top of the lockers and opened his own, “You’re on the closing shift, yeah? Want me to swing by? I’ve got nothing planned.”

The offer had surprised Molly, judging by the way she stuttered a moment and he shrugged under her gaze. The offer was there, he really had nothing to do that night.

“Thanks, John, really,” She recovered, “but I asked a friend to come pick me up, we’re going to dinner after.”

“That’s fine, as long as you’ve got someone watching out.” Maybe he was just being overly worried again, she had said her admirer hadn’t done anything too serious, but it was better safe than sorry, right? Pulling his jacket on, he went to check his next shift on the clipboard. 

He tugged it off the wall and checked the grid chart clamped to it. Sherlock had said he’d known John’s shift because he’d seen it on the chart. The schedule was, in fact, up in the front for the world to see, was this why Molly had had bad luck with the bastard at work? A quick glance was sent suspiciously over the scattering of customers seated at the tables. Like he’d said before, better safe than sorry.

After scribbling a quick note in the margins, John left the clipboard by the lockers in the back safe and out of sight. Now he was definitely being overly worried.

Either way, he had work tomorrow. With a quick shout goodbye to Fred and Molly, he headed out the back door now reeking of coffee and not a hint of bleach. Back to normal.

Well, almost. Another set of missed messages displayed on his phone when he’d checked for any calls from Harry – none. He couldn't decide which upset him more.

_Your job is dull - SH_

The first one was encouraging, as usual, and came around eight that morning. The next was time stamped at 10:32 am.

_You cleaned - SH_

Then immediately after, at 10:33 am.

_You threw away my results, I wasn’t finished cataloguing them - SH_

The petri dishes? What could he possibly be cataloguing them for? They weren’t even labelled.

John’s eyebrow twitched in a delayed realisation, how had he not known his flat had been clean until half an hour ago? Had he been out all night or had he just not noticed? Honestly, either was a possibility for the mad omega. A twinge of concern bubbled in his chest at the horrible image of Sherlock spending New Years with his awful addiction; it was so akin to the concern he felt for his sister that his stomach twisted in dismay. Sherlock was an _arse_ and he wasn’t worth the burden of concern.

Besides, John took heart in the fact that the omega’s earlier messages implied he’d been hunting down the murderer at least part of the night.

No, John wasn’t going to worry about him.

He jammed his phone into his pocket, messages left unanswered, and quickly steered towards a second hand bookshop he’d found in his first year. The new semester was fast approaching and he might as well get his books before all the students were back from holidays and the things on his reading list went out of stock.

* * *

Over the next few days, John received, and proceeded to ignore, various odd messages from the great Sherlock H-something – because the git never bothered to tell him his last name. Most of them were nonsensical, or they were asking him to do something mundane, but none of them contained any sort of apology or even an acknowledgement that he had done something decidedly _not good_. Yet despite John’s continued silence, they kept coming in fairly regular intervals. John wondered if Sherlock even realised he was being pushed away, or if he did and this was just his strange attempt to get John’s attention. John had started several replies with various levels of frustration or anger, but he never managed to send a single one of them.

The _last_ time Sherlock wanted his attention, he showed up at John’s work and tricked him into a date – not that the omega had to work terribly hard for John to come bounding after him. Despite all Sherlock’s problems, there was just something about tall, dark, and handsome that called to John. He’d never been attracted to another male before, omega or not, but Sherlock… he was _something_.

Yes he ignored John, yes he threw him under the bus and _yes_ he was an addict mixed in with the wrong crowd, but John feared he was inevitably going to forgive the man. Two days after the first text and he was already starting to think his own anger at the omega and the fear for losing everything had just been a knee-jerk reaction to the situation and the more he looked at it, the more he saw there was no reason for it.

The police would have eventually let him go, right? They’d already cleared the scene before John had even got there and all the evidence wouldn’t have an ounce of ‘John’ there. No connection, motive nor history of delinquency was connected to John, no reason for being there other than to help. They would have eventually found the killer too – especially if the man was trying to run during a police investigation. 

Even Greg had mentioned some footage proving he hadn’t been there – though how they had gotten footage specifically of John in the tubes had puzzled him. So his life wouldn’t have been ruined, and he had just panicked. He wasn’t fined or arrested and he _had_ helped catch a killer, maybe even before he had the chance to get away from justice for good. 

And yet, when John caught himself rationalising Sherlock’s bad behaviour, he wanted to scream in frustration. Even if everything turned out fine, the omega didn’t _deserve_ forgiveness when he didn’t seem to see he’d done something wrong.

And then there were the messages themselves. They weren’t even nice messages, most of them were just Sherlock being a demanding arse while a few made him do a double take and wonder if Greg should be informed.

_I am out of petri dishes - SH_

_What do you suppose the decomposition rate of a human heart would be if it were completely encased in cement? - SH_

_I need to borrow your student ID. - SH_

_What is the best method for removing cow bile stains from carpet? - SH_

_There is a report in the paper today about a suicide. It wasn’t suicide. You can tell by the shoes. Dull. - SH_

That last one was disturbing enough to convince him a call New Scotland Yard was necessary. He got transferred three times and was almost hung up on and, when he finally got to Greg’s line, it went straight to voicemail. 

“Lestrade – Greg, this is… er… John Watson. I know this might sound weird,” John began his message, not sure what could be said in this situation, “but I got a text from Sherlock. He says there was a suicide in the paper today, but it wasn’t actually suicide. I think he might have meant it was something worse.” John felt a bit silly without any details. He didn’t even know _which_ paper. What was Sherlock doing going through newspapers? That didn’t seem like something he’d do, and how could he know what shoes were involved unless he saw pictures? He stumbled through the last of the message, leaving his number in case Greg wanted to call him, though it wouldn’t do much good.

The whole thing almost had him texting Sherlock back, _hell_ , he almost called right out, but he was afraid if he did, he might forgive Sherlock.

Greg called the next morning asking if he’d got any details from Sherlock about the not suicide. All John had was the text. Not suicide – because of the shoes. There wasn’t much John could say, he had to admit that he hadn’t exactly spoken with Sherlock since New Year’s. What little information he’d had came via a one way text message conversation. He wanted to ask the DI if this was something Sherlock regularly did to people – texting them at all hours of the day, whether or not they ever got a response, but the man seemed too irritated by John’s lack of help to ask. When it was clear John didn’t have the information, he thought perhaps Greg was going to ask him to call Sherlock but the omega didn’t. He only asked that John give him a call if he got anything else out of the git and left it at that.

Again he wanted to call Sherlock, he just felt bad that Greg had to put up with this sort of thing. Was it worth it? He wouldn’t have called John for details if Sherlock had been willing to give them. Why did he put up with Sherlock at all? Sherlock didn’t work for him, he was a troublemaker.

So far Greg had only ever sounded frustrated with Sherlock, and yet he came to him when he needed help, he got John out of a tight spot too –probably didn’t even arrest Sherlock for disturbing the crime scene. 

What was he missing? Surely Sherlock’s brilliance wasn’t worth all that trouble for the DI.

John really didn’t need this sort of trouble in his life right now.

* * *

Things really started to get back to normal once John’s flatmates came back from holiday. Everyone was back before lectures started, but Bill was the first one to the flat on the third day after New Year’s day, belly aching about the ‘worst hangover of his life’ and bragging about the wild party he’d been privy to somewhere on the north side of London. He surprised John that night when he showed up with a case of beer – _‘John, I don’t give a shit if you can’t pay me back, get a god-damn beer and sit down’_ – and the whole story about how he’d stumbled upon the unforgettable party with a sixth form friend after they went pub crawling. 

It was a strange ritual Bill began for the both of them, John caught on to his ploy the second holiday after moving into the flat. Bill always saved a night after both alphas were back under the same roof to sit and play catch up, ‘alpha to alpha’. John figured it was his way of getting familiar again with the second alpha sharing his space. He’d often mentioned having big nights out with his brothers during family holidays, and all three of them were just as alpha as Bill. He had to admit, he always felt friendlier towards the alpha after playing catchup.

Bill told his story, flourished with his usual, colorful embellishments, and inevitably poked at John about what he’d done over the holiday. John, with a few beer already buzzing through him, finally felt the need to get Sherlock off his chest. Keeping the story to himself seemed ridiculous after he began to talk, he ended up spilling the whole thing – save the drug lord, just in case – over beer and takeaway. Half the story left poor Bill in stitches, especially the bit about John freaking out in the police station, only to run into the one man who owed John a big enough favour to let him out scot-free.

Honestly, telling the story felt good. It was the only good story he’d had all break and the rest of it was bloody grey and forgettable. He had been so wound up about the trouble he’d catch that he’d forgotten how thrilling it was while it was happening.

Then Bill asked him if he’d fucked Sherlock again with his usual tactless grin – it was no wonder the bastard didn’t get many dates. 

No, he hadn’t, that earned a scoff from Bill. 

He hadn’t even texted the man back. Bill nearly exploded on him for that one.

“Wait a damn minute, you’re telling me this gorgeous omega just drops into your lap and you’re going to chase him away?!” Bill made a show of taking a big whiff of the air between them, “You smell mighty beta, John. What’s wrong with you?”

“God, do you ever think without your cock?” John snapped, “Yeah, he’s.. brilliant, but he’s a whole lot of crazy and selfish too! You should see half the shit he texts me!”

“What, like obsessive stuff?” Bill gave him a doubtful glance over his bottle.

“No, just stuff like… strange stuff? He asked me about heart decomposition rates in concrete once,” John shrugged when Bill bellowed out a laugh, “and he won’t _stop_ texting.”

“John, I’ve got a secret for you,” Bill looked far too proud for his own good. “You’ve checked that phone of yours over a dozen times tonight. You’re like a teen omega swooning over a massive crush!”

“Oh, shove off!” John threw his sofa cushion at the grinning berk.

* * *

It was five days after the New Year and two days before the start of lectures when Harry finally got in touch. This was after John left two more messages on her voicemail and texted half a dozen times, much to his frustration, he’d almost called his mum to see if she’d checked in with her. The call came as John was just out of the shower and about to turn in for bed – on a Saturday no less, he saw her name light up his mobile and, for a second, he worried that she was calling drunk again.

“Harry,” he answered on the third ring, “Where’ve you been? I’ve been phoning.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” his sister admonished from the other end of the line. She didn’t sound inebriated, but neither did she sound particularly happy to be talking to him. “I’m just fine, busy as ever with my new job and everything, I’m a secretary now.”

John’s brow furrowed, and here he didn’t know she was even looking for a new job. Had she lost the old one? “That’s great, Harry, but I’ve been worried about you –”

“I know, you keep texting me about it. I’m _fine_ , Johnny, you don’t have to keep checking up on me. Really, nothing’s changed since we last talked and, honestly, you act like an old granny sometimes.” 

She was pretending everything was alright and John had seen the act a hundred times before, enough to recognise it right off the bat. Harry _knew_ John wasn’t going to be fooled but she kept on pretending. Everything was great, fine, wonderful, until the day she’s calling John at three in the morning sobbing because her girlfriend had kicked her out and she was too drunk to get off her arse and help herself.

John was having none of it, “What about the drinking, Harry?”

There was a sudden, pregnant pause over the line, ending when Harry hissed out an accusing reply, “ _what_ drinking? I told you, I’ve been –”

“Shove it, Harry, you drunk dialled me on Christmas morning and you’ve been avoiding my calls, do you think I’m an idiot?” John shot back. He was walking himself right into a fight and he just couldn’t stop himself. “How bad has it got? What about the meetings?”

“I’ve not got bad!” she snapped, “I had a bottle of wine at Christmas, so what?” She was starting to shout now. He always hated this part. “You can’t blame me for having a little fucking fun!”

“A _little_ fun? Harry, you don’t know when to stop! Last time, you –”

“Oh, save your speeches,” Harry clipped back, “If you didn’t want to bloody help then you should have saved both of us the trouble! You act like the perfect little angel, but you’re not! Stop spreading your guilt around because I don’t want to hear it!”

“Harry! Would you stop –” John sputtered when the line went silent; Harry had hung up on him. Of course, she never wanted to hear it. He yanked the phone away from his ear and gave it a frustrated squeeze.

So, Harry was off the wagon.

Of course, he knew that already. He’d known it for certain since Christmas, and guessed for longer than that. Before, he’d hoped it hadn’t got serious, but he couldn’t push the niggling worry away now. Damn her, and damn himself for feeling so concerned, so _responsible_. 

It was getting late, but John felt closed in and confined in his room with the sound of his roommates shuffling outside. Grabbing his old jacket, he shoved his phone into his pocket as he marched out and down the stairs. Mike called after him when he crossed the living room, but he was out the door before the question even registered. Where was he going? Out. Didn’t matter where.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he turned left towards the park he’d often go to jog. He just needed to clear his head a bit, to think things through. Going to his sister's place wasn't the answer, he’d tried that already. The summer between college and university was spent sleeping on her sofa. There was hope that his presence would help quell her partying, but really all it did was turn him into a glorified babysitter on the nights she didn’t get home until after midnight, or when she didn’t show up at all and he had to fetch her when she finally did call for him. Conversations turned into screaming matches, and nothing John tried ever stuck for long. 

Whether he was there or not made no difference to her. This was something she had to fix herself, but she never did, and she always, inevitably, dragged John down into the muck with her.

He trudged on to the park and picked a path to follow. The chill and the late hour kept most of the people out of the park and John didn’t see anyone else as he walked against the wind, his shoulders hunched and his hands digging deeper into his pockets. This couldn’t bother him, he had lectures starting Monday and those were his priority. Sometimes he wished he could just forget his sister, just let her dig her own grave and let her pick up the pieces when everything blew up in her face. Never, not once, had she been there when _he_ needed her. They never really got on. Why did he let this bother him?

His father flushed away his whole fucking life for the bottom of the bottle and John got over that just fine. No, it was never that simple, was it?

A muffled chime startled John out of his thoughts and his fingers squeezed around his phone. A text.

_I’m out of milk. Bring some over. - SH_

John stared at the message lit upon his phone, unsure what to think about it. Unsure what to think about any of it. Was Sherlock was testing him? Or did he really expect John to bring him milk after five days of ignoring him? It wasn’t some bad attempt to get him to come over, was it? Maybe. He was certainly the bossy sort. Not only that, he was frank and impatient, and never seemed to care whether it was polite or not. 

So why all the texting? There had to be a reason for it that John wasn’t seeing, some ulterior motive, but after everything John had witnessed, he couldn’t judge Sherlock as bad sort. He solved a murder for fun and he did it even when the police didn’t want him to.

That was brilliant.

John walked on for a while, the phone tucked back into his pocket. Brilliant, yes, but there was still part of Sherlock that screamed danger. The drugs, for one. Sherlock didn’t deny his association with them, but besides the first night, John hadn’t seen him using. Was he avoiding them in John’s presence? How often did he use? 

Surely he knew the risks, as smart as he was. The reason must be that he just didn’t care. John had never been privy the effects of cocaine on a person up close, but how different could the addiction be to alcohol? It provided only brief what – enjoyment? Escape? Whatever it did, it was never worth the price. Did he not have loved ones to help him? 

John laughed at that, of course he did. Greg might as well be family with as much as he puts up with Sherlock. A ‘Mycroft’ was mentioned once, muttering about how the man was supposed to help tidy his flat. Maybe he was family? Regardless, John knew how impossible it was convincing a person that their addiction had to end. He thought Harry was bad to talk to, Sherlock might be ten times worse. John could just imagine.

Maybe Sherlock just revelled in the danger, or maybe there was something seriously wrong with his head. The omega always seemed so put together though – John thought back to the night they shared together, _really_ thought about it for the first time since he’d been picked up by the car outside his flat. That night Sherlock had shined. He pulled John into his orbit and knew exactly what buttons to push to get John to do exactly what he wanted – what they both wanted. John had wanted that night, yeah, and he had wanted to help Sherlock with his case the next day. Even the drug lord hadn’t scared John away.

Sherlock wasn’t ever as bad as Harry, and what was the harm, really? If that woman in the police station was right, Sherlock wouldn’t be texting if he’d lost interest in John... or maybe he would, maybe he was reading this whole thing wrong and Sherlock was just texting because he’d nothing better to do.

Somehow, John didn’t think that was the case.

He pulled out his phone and looked over the message again. Milk? Honestly?

_I’m not bringing you milk, you git._

John’s finger hovered over the send. It wasn’t anything spectacular for a text, but it felt like he was standing at the crossroads. He could send it and find out why Sherlock had been sending all those messages, or he could ignore it like all the others and just count this moment as a weak point.

John let out a nervous laugh when he pressed send.

It wasn’t until he was halfway back to his flat before his mobile chimed again.


	9. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock?” He managed to choke out seconds later as he turned to bin the bags. Gods, he must find some strange amusement in surprising John, even if it meant standing around waiting in the January cold. “You should’ve come inside and had a cuppa, it’s freezing out here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fresh, new chapter! I apologize for the late post, but I have all the good words of encouragements to thank for seeing me through this chapter. Thank you all <3
> 
> And as always, thanks so much to CrackshotKate for betaing for me. Without her, my chapters are only half as good.

John’s first class of the day was already in full swing when he felt the fourth buzz of his phone in his pocket. Despite his attempts to explain his schedule, Sherlock continued to be oblivious to when John _shouldn't_ be answering his texts. Shouldn't, because John was growing too slack on his own rules and replying to them when he thought he could get away with it.

Ever since he started texting Sherlock again, it was as if John had never tried to block him out in the first place. Sherlock never mentioned it and John never asked why he had been so persistent. Maybe that was just how Sherlock operated. At least the conversations were far more interesting ever since John started participating. 

The first night they were back on speaking terms, Sherlock explained why he needed the milk he'd asked John to bring. Perhaps Sherlock thought the reasoning would convince him to bring it. It wasn’t for tea, as most sane people of London would need milk for, it was for a chemical experiment using the curdling process. He never did bring the milk and Sherlock had fetched the dairy himself around ten.

The next night they moved to an online messenger and John stayed up painfully late discussing autoimmune diseases and various ways to identify the types post-mortem if there were only specific organ samples to work with. John had to dig through half his medical book collection for that one. Sherlock suggested, dismissed, and modified several of his own half-baked theories, most of which John thought would be damn clever, if proven. He figured that with more testing and research, Sherlock could have published a paper on his theories. He suggested it and could practically hear the scoff coming off the replying text. Sherlock did not seem to think sharing his knowledge was a worthwhile endeavor when there were so many idiots taking up space in the world.

The next day Sherlock was silent save for a text in the morning that read, cryptically, _‘Marzipan’_. It was just as well, it was the first day of the new semester and John spent most of it with his phone on silent, just in case. When there was still no word from Sherlock by that night he broke down and texted, hoping he wasn't annoying the omega by doing so. Sherlock replied like nothing was out of the ordinary at all and John never found out what Marzipan had to do with anything.

They’d been texting for a full week, back and forth, every day. Sometimes Sherlock disappeared for several hours and made John worry about what he might be doing in those times. Sometimes he wouldn’t stop texting, each one growing more demanding if John didn’t immediately text back. 

_Three New Messages_. He had miscounted. Maybe he was imagining Sherlock texting him more often than he was. Maybe he was just tired, it was still early. The messages were all from Sherlock, at least, and were all about a new suicide turned murder – the third, apparently, since the first text that had prompted John to contact Greg. It seemed that the two omegas had been in contact since and now that the one murder was turning into a serial case, Greg allowed Sherlock in as a consultant. That was intense, to be honest, but it must have Sherlock thrilled. He tended to lax on his punctuation when he got excited and all three texts were run on sentences.

John ignored the dread building in his chest as he texted back, warning Sherlock to keep himself out of trouble. A serial killer was different than a sibling killing in a fit of jealous rage. Sherlock could get himself in a lot of trouble if he wasn’t careful. It wasn’t his job to make sure Sherlock was careful, though. He wasn’t sure what he was to the omega, actually – they hadn’t even phoned each other since the texts began, let alone met face to face. Was he some idle distraction for Sherlock? And what did he think of the omega? Of course he was amazing, brilliant, but he was also dangerous, and certainly bad for John. Shouldn’t that stop him from wanting to be friends? From wanting to try for more? It was driving John mental, not knowing, and what was worse was that their one night stand had turned into fuel for John’s wanks while he stressed over the might-bes and the could-bes. 

He had to stop this, his head was starting to turn in all sorts of wrong directions. He sent the text before he tuned back into the lecture only half over, he still needed to pass his classes and Sherlock wasn’t helping with that at all.

* * *

His last class let out at 2:50 that afternoon and his phone buzzed almost on the dot. The timing was too perfect not to be planned, Sherlock must have known his timetable after all and chose to ignore it when it didn’t suit him. John packed his things and slung his bag over his shoulder, checking his phone as he was walking out the building and down the pavement.

The text turned out to be an address, followed by a short _‘Come at once - SH’_. It wasn’t an address he recognized. The scene of the latest murder, maybe? The invitation tempted him, despite what happened last time he got a summons like this, but he couldn't.

_‘Can’t,’_ John texted back, _‘I’m on rota today.’_

_‘Dull,’_ John received, less than a minute later, _‘I need you, this is more important. - SH’_

John’s lips twitched into a grin, he just couldn’t help it. Sherlock wanted him to come along to another of his ‘cases’, and despite what happened last time John found that he was eager to go. He could see Sherlock again, face to face. He could watch the brilliant man as he figured out all the right clues to lead everyone back to the killer – and _this_ time he had official permission from Greg and no one was in heat. Damn his shift at the shop, if he didn't need the money so badly he might have called off and gone chasing after Sherlock.

But no, he couldn't be so reckless, and of course Sherlock didn't need him. He could have the whole case solved and the murderer behind bars before John finished serving a shift worth of coffee and scones. Then there would be nothing but texts between them once again.

With a resigned sigh, he took up his phone once more and typed out, _‘Can’t miss work, see you after?’_

He’d hoped he’d hear from Sherlock again before he stepped through the back door of the Vanilla Bean, but no further texts came. He shot off one last text before he left his phone in his locker and clocked in officially for the afternoon.

_‘Be careful’_

* * *

The closing shift at the Vanilla Bean was the same as usual. Molly wasn't on schedule, but the quiet beta Charlie was. He never offered the chatter Molly did, and always snuck off to check his phone, but John found himself distracted enough not to need the extra noise. His thoughts kept going back to Sherlock and the case. He knew nothing about it, save for the fact that they were murders meant to look like suicides. That didn't stop him from imagining what Sherlock must be going through to solve who the murderer was and why it was happening. He kept day-dreaming about that tall, proud, and far too skinny man searching through flats and examining things that shouldn't be considered clues. He imagined Sherlock amazing the police, and maybe upsetting them when he called them idiots – because he wouldn't hold back just because they were authority. 

He wondered how much trouble Sherlock got himself into on a daily basis. Drugs, arrogance, and disregard for the law couldn't be good for him. How was he staying out of prison at all? How had he come to befriend a detective and consult for the Met? Were his powers of deduction so great that they would allow him to wander around, breaking laws and being a danger, just so they could pick at that great big brain of his? Or was there a bigger picture there John just wasn't seeing?

It wasn't the first time John had stressed over Sherlock’s situation, and it wasn't going to be the last. If he was going to continue to associate with the man, maybe he would eventually find the answers. He couldn't deduce it out of thin air like Sherlock could, but he would probably be seeing Greg again at some point. He could ask then, there had to be a story there, something that explained all the questions John was storing up.

To his dismay, his mind continued to circle Sherlock and his dangerous serial murderer all evening. He felt as if he were caught in a whirlpool, neither able to escape or to sink into the heart of the matter. He’d hoped, after a while, that Sherlock solved it all by the time closing hour came around. John could then invite himself over and pry the whole day’s events from the omega over fattening take-out. If there was one thing that John _did_ know, it was that Sherlock liked to boast when it came to his deductive powers; it wouldn't be hard to get him talking.

Of course, it wouldn't ever happen like John hoped it would. By the time he had cleaned the place, sent Charlie on his way, and locked the front door, his phone remained silent to Sherlock’s progress. He had a few texts from Mike and some classmates asking about notes, but nothing from Sherlock.

Maybe he should text again? Or should he wait until Sherlock contacted him? John contemplated the pros and cons as he stepped out the back door with fists full of bin bags, the door locked behind him.

The familiar smell of Sherlock separated from the grime of the alley almost instantly. John’s eyes snapped to the tall, ethereal figure across the way – a sight that sent John’s heart hammering and his nostrils flaring for every bit of omega scent he could pick up. He found Sherlock washed in the yellow light of the dim bulb over the door, half hidden in shadow and wrapped in the whirls of smoke wafting from the tip of his cigarette. It was so akin to the first time Sherlock met him like this that John’s mouth went dry with anticipation.

“Sherlock?” He managed to choke out seconds later as he turned to bin the bags. Gods, he must find some strange amusement in surprising John, even if it meant standing around waiting in the January cold. “You should’ve come inside and had a cuppa, it’s freezing out here.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock’s rasp pierced the air and immediately John knew something was wrong. He rounded on Sherlock again and this time he really _looked_ at the man. The dim light and the cold air had hidden the truth from John, but now he saw it. 

Sherlock flicked away the last of his cigarette and pried himself off the wall to crowd closer to John. Chilled fingers snaked around his middle, tremors passing from the fingertips in quick, involuntary twitches.

“Wanted to see you,” Sherlock’s voice was not his own. It was too clipped and wispy for the confident omega John knew, “The case, John. It’s infuriating! It doesn't make sense!” The omega slumped against him, his face drawing closer as his twitching, frozen fingers touched John’s jaw, tilting it up until John could smell the lingering nicotine on his breath.

“Sherlock,” His own tense tone broke through the moment's spell and he pressed into the omega’s chest, hard and insistent until he gave in. He stepped back at the mercy of John’s hold, his shadowed face once more falling into a space John could properly observe. There was no denying it now. Sherlock was high.

He framed his hands around that long, alien face, tilting it so the light exposed the telling evidence: his nose, cheeks, and ears flushed red from the cold, his eyes flickered about John’s face with a glassy sheen, pupils dark and dilated. He couldn't seem to focus them as he scowled at John and the growing disappointment that was written all over his face.

“Stop it, I know what you’re trying to do,” Sherlock snapped out. He tried to pull away from John’s hold, but John followed his jerky movements until he had the omega pressed against the brick wall. 

“And what exactly am I trying to do?” He snipped as he ignored Sherlock's resulting glare and pressed his thumbs against the skin of his long neck, feeling the pulse thundering under the touch.

Sherlock was fucking wasted.

Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pushed John away, but John wasn't done with him yet. He latched on to one of Sherlock’s hands and pulled the bastard towards the street, “God, you’re such an idiot.”

“You're being ridiculous!” Sherlock bit out in a frustrated, giddy tone. Turning back to him as they came out of the alley and into the light of the street, John tried to find any other tells that the omega was in danger, but Sherlock’s drugged gaze was distant now, refusing to look at John directly though heaven knew why. How could he not expect John to react like this when he showed up _high_?

“ _John, I’m not -_ ”

“Shut up, we’re not talking right now. I’m taking you home.” He glared up at Sherlock until it was clear the omega wasn't going to offer up further protests. He didn't, and John marched the entire tense length back to Sherlock’s flat, dragging the omega along behind him.

* * *

This was unbelievable. It was bad enough for Sherlock to drug himself up to his eyeballs, but to find him wandering out in public, at John’s work? Where else had he been that night? What happened to the case with Greg? 

John seethed the entire way to the flat, hand steel tight around Sherlock’s as the omega muttered in his low, chocolate tones. Each time John looked, Sherlock would clamp down on his mumbling and look off somewhere in the distance. Christ, this man was supposed to be brilliant. Why would he ever think doing this to himself was a good idea? 

His anger only simmered as they rounded onto Sherlock’s street and up to his familiar front door. “Keys,” he demanded and Sherlock obediently dug through his pocket, surrendering the keys to John. Together they shuffled into the hallway, John nudging Sherlock ahead until they were both safe inside the cold, dark hall. It was a bit more than chilly inside, the coats were better left on for now. He pushed Sherlock the rest of the way into his front room and dropped him onto the sofa with a firm, guiding hand.

“You’re upset,” Sherlock pointed out the obvious and John wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or shout at the idiot. 

“Of course I’m bloody upset,” opting on neither, he dropped down to sit beside Sherlock and dragged him closer by his coat sleeve. He brushed away inky curls and slid his hand over Sherlock’s flushed face, only to have the omega bat his hand away.

“Stop playing games, Sherlock, this is serious.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“I just want to check –”

“I am fine! I am not an addict.” Sherlock growled back, but his words offered John no reassurance. He still looked high, still buzzing as if his own skin caused him discomfort. John reached out again and Sherlock shrank away, his hands driving into his mess of curls, “The _case_ , John,” He spat out, “That’s all that matters. Leave me alone and let me _think_!”

Those words hung in the air as Sherlock slunk to the opposite side of the sofa. He drew up his knees, digging shoes into the cushion, and closed himself off from the world. It was a long moment before John moved again, hands lifting in a defeated show. “Alright,” He sighed, exasperated, and left Sherlock there to sulk.

He tried not to feel hurt by Sherlock’s resistance; he tried to see it how Sherlock did, but it was hard – impossible. What did Sherlock expect from him? What sort of person would John be if he thought this was all fine? He tried to bury how he felt, reminding himself that they weren’t in a relationship – barely friends – and he had no right to lecture Sherlock. Instead, he tried to occupy his focus by finding a way to heat the flat quickly. 

He found the boiler switched low, did Sherlock turn the heating off on purpose or did he just forget? There was a fireplace but no firewood, so turning the heating up would have to suffice. Tea, at least, would help warm the omega, so John set about making a cuppa. He passed into the kitchen and flicked on the lights, immediately spotting the chemistry set laid out over the table. He avoided that mess all together.

By the time John returned with the tea, Sherlock was muttering to himself again. He found the omega now stretched across the sofa on his back. His expression pinched in frustration, but his eyes remained closed and his hands stretched upward, gesticulating back and forth. It was as if he were some bad conductor for the symphony, the way he was carrying on. 

He watched for a time from the doorway before he meandered over to the coffee table. He settled on the edge facing the omega, tea set aside so he could reach out and take one of Sherlock’s cold hands between his own. He intertwined their fingers and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, regarding John with a wary gaze.

“How much?” John asked in a soft tone, his hand rubbing Sherlock in slow circles, inviting heat into the icy digits.

At first, Sherlock continued to watch him with trepidation and annoyance. Must be upset, John figured, about the way he reacted earlier. When he first saw Sherlock in the alley, the omega had been ready to kiss him. What might have happened if John had let it continue? A few imaginative scenarios bubbled in his mind’s eye, but they were all just fantasies. This wasn't how he wanted their reunion to go. Why had Sherlock waited for him outside his work anyways? He was acting as if he wanted nothing to do with John at the moment.

Never the less, he kept his expression open and calm. Anger could return later, right now he just wanted to make sure Sherlock was going to be alright.

“Not enough,” Sherlock finally sighed out, but the frustration still lingering in his tone. His head tilted away again, his eyes closing, but his hand remained in John’s hold. 

There were so many things John could have said in response.

_’Any bit of it is too much, Sherlock.’_

_‘Are you insane?!’_

_‘I can help you stop, right now, you just have to promise me.’_

He swallowed down each false start and dropped his head, letting his lips brush against Sherlock’s warming hand. The soft kiss lingered across wide knuckles until Sherlock’s fingers began to twitch again. It was the only warning John had before Sherlock burst to life. His hand wrenched from his hold as the omega threw himself from the sofa and across the living room, only to spin around and pace back with a determined march. He set a path for himself around the open floor as his hands waved, lips moving in words John couldn't quite catch.

“Sherlock?” John prompt.

The man didn't respond.

“Sherlock!”

The omega whirled around, teeth flashing in a fierce snarl at John, who only stared at him with open concern. After an assessing moment, Sherlock's expression melted into a scowl and he whirled back onto his invisible path. 

When he turned and crossed into the kitchen, John stood, picking up the tea, and followed.

Pausing at the threshold, he watched Sherlock shove back the microscope and beakers, crowding everything to one side and narrowly avoiding a whole clump of equipment falling to the floor. John grimaced at the sight, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice his mess as he settled at the cleared end of the table, a fat notebook dropped in front of him and pen in hand. When it became clear that he wasn't going to jump up and run off again, John made his approach. He set Sherlock’s tea down far enough away that he wouldn't knock it over with his wild gestures, then he set about transferring some of the more endangered beakers and breakable objects from the edge of the table to the kitchen counters. 

“If anything, you should be the one doing this.” John grumbled as he set the last beaker down and eyed the still cluttered table. Should he find a place for the microscope as well? It was a bit too heavy to be accidentally shoved off the table, so John turned his focus back onto the omega he was babysitting for the night.

He had cleared at least three pages of quick, chicken-scratch writing in the time it took John to clear space on the table. Rounding behind the omega, he peaked over at the current page. Words spilled out in frilly loops and sloppy shorthand. Writing that would make any doctor proud. John tried to make sense of it, picking out a few words until he decided the page had something to do with soil compositions.

“Is that for the case?”

“What?” Sherlock jumped in his chair and his eyes snapped up to John. Must have forgotten he was there, boy did that make John feel special.

“The case, the one you text about. The suicides,” John sighed, tugging out a second chair and settling at the table to watch Sherlock. He completely expected the omega to ignore him, but at least here he could watch Sherlock for any signs that he might need help.

Sherlock, to his surprise, needed a few moments to process the question, or maybe it had something to do with soil composition. In any case, the omega stared at John, pen hovering over paper, until he came back to reality with a snap a few seconds later. “Yes, of course, what else would it be? The case! It doesn't make any sense!” He shouted and flung the pen onto the table, flipping back to the first page of notes. He ripped it out and then apart with a flurry – no, ripped it into three strips, John realized, as Sherlock spread each one onto the table.

“First victim, Michael Shepherd, thirty-nine year old alpha working for the financial consulting firm ‘Ford and Myres’. Found hanging in his bedroom by a maid service January third,” Sherlock glared at the paper as if it had personally offended him before moving on to the next.

“Tiffany Miller, nineteen year old beta art school dropout, found in her tub bled out from cuts on her arm, January ninth.” His nails dragged across the paper before he moved on to the last victim. 

“Conor O’Hara, sixty-seven year old beta retired lawyer, found this morning, suffocated on exhaust fumes, the car still running. They aren't related at all. Every one of them different! There is no connection!” He snarled at the papers in front of him, “Why them? What reason?”

“How did you know about the shoes?” John cut into Sherlock’s growing volume, startling the omega and hopefully derailing whatever tantrum was building over the three mysteries, “with the first guy?”

“...Right,” Sherlock restarted, this time ripping out pieces from the second page, “Obvious. His shoes, each murder had a tell. Shepherd’s was his shoes. The crease in his socks, the knot in the laces, they were put on, and subsequently tied, by someone else.”

“Miller was drugged with Rohypnol, and Conor’s suicide note references a dog he didn’t own. Each crime meticulously created, only to be ruined with one giant red arrow right through the middle of the scene!” 

The entire time Sherlock rambled, he continued to rip apart different sections of writing and placed them in one of the three growing piles. John leaned over the ‘O’Hara’ pile and read over some of the information. Schedule, favorite haunts, fingernail polish brand? “Doesn’t the Yard have files on all this sort of stuff? What happen to Greg?”

That was clearly not the right thing to say. Sherlock looked disgusted as he jumped up from the table and stormed off. John could only groan and give chase, “Sherlock, what happened?”

“ _Lestrade_ sent me away,” Sherlock snarled as he crossed through the room and into the hall. He flung open the door at the end, revealing a cupboard filled with boxes and clutter, “He said I needed _sleep_. Fat, fat Mycroft had something to do with that.”

“So you thought it was a good idea to do this instead?” John asked in a low tone, purposed and calm. He couldn’t get angry. Not yet. He focused on the present, and sidestepped when Sherlock flung a brolly out of the closet in his quest for... something. Half the cupboard’s contents were spilled out into the hall now. 

“I don’t need sleep, John,” Sherlock’s muffled reply came, “There is a case and I need to solve it. The cocaine helps me think, it clears my mind, makes things… ” He paused then as he sat back up, a long cardboard tube set in his hands. “Easier.” 

Whatever it was, it seemed to be what Sherlock had been searching for. He jumped to his feet and stormed past John again, leaving the hall an utter mess. John gave it an annoyed look before he turned and followed the frantic omega back to the kitchen.

“Easier? Sherlock, that’s not a reason to do this to yourself, to your body. You’re bloody brilliant enough as it is.” John tried to understand as he watched Sherlock uncork the tube. Inside was a rolled poster that crinkled on the edges and had been tacked and taped up onto a wall in the past. 

“It’s for the puzzle, John. That’s what matters. Why the fake suicides? Why these particular people? What is going through our killers mind when he hunts? Did he know his victims or did he pick them for another reason? It’s fascinating… infuriating,” Sherlock discarded the tube, tucked the roll under an arm, and began shoving the rest of the debris from the table.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John felt exasperated. Sherlock looked far too... feral when he spoke of the murderer like he was someone to admire. He wanted to blame it on the cocaine, but there was an itch in the back of his head reminding him that Sherlock had been cruel before, brilliant, but cruel. It was as if he forgot there was a human aspect to the puzzle he claimed the crimes to be. A crash jerked his head towards a fallen mortar bowl, tipped off the edge of the table as Sherlock hurried to clear the surface.

“Here, let me help,” John muttered glumly, a bit of his thoughts seeping into his tone, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he prattled on.

“Each of his victims disappeared when they were alone, no one suspicious seen around their homes, their works. No strange activity, nothing stolen, no clear motive. Why then, is he playing with us? He's skilled enough to fool the Met with suicide. He’s taunting them and they _missed_ the first sign!” Sherlock snorted with disgust, but John just shrugged as he helped move the microscope into one of the chairs. 

“Here.” The strips of paper and notebook were shoved into John’s arms and at last the table was cleared. Sherlock’s poster came unrolled, and it turned out to be a large map of London. It barely fit on the table, and Sherlock had to retrieve several items to weight down the corners before he nabbed the paper from John, once again placing the different paper scraps down onto the table – this time in specific locations on the map. He sorted them all out, then flipped to a new page to write out a few more sentences before he huffed and threw the notebook at John. “Write for me, I need to think,” he ordered without so much as a please and thank you. John glared at the paper, considering just telling him off, but Sherlock was talking again and John resigned without a fight as he dropped down into an unoccupied chair.

Over the next hour Sherlock chatted almost non-stop, dictating details, locations, and theories for John to write down, or muttering and mumbling as he rearranged some piece on his map. He made connections that John couldn't follow, and leaps of logic that had the omega dancing and jumping around as he spilled out his deductions with barely a breath between. Just as brilliant as always, but John refused to believe his brain was any better now than it would have be without that poison.

About half an hour in John stopped and refused to go on until Sherlock drank his damned tea, cold or not, and he got to take a piss. Sherlock scowled at him the entire time (John was certain the glare could have burned through the walls, given enough time), but he drank his tea and waited furiously for John to return to his seat before he launched right back into his dictations.

It was gradual, but Sherlock was getting better. The flat warmed and Sherlock looked less manic by the end of the hour, and the periods between his dictations grew longer. When fifteen minutes had passed with Sherlock staring at the map without a word out of him, John laid down the pen and got up to stretch. They could use some dinner, as well. The least Sherlock could do was feed him.

This night was a bust, anyway. While he had hoped he’d get the chance to spend it with Sherlock, he’d just wished it had been under better circumstances. He drove his hand through his hair and glanced down at the map. It was littered with paper and string now, but John still couldn't see a connection, hell, he felt just as lost as when they started, and judging by Sherlock’s silence, he may be stumped as well. John swept his gaze over the map one last time before he turned and checked the fridge.

There was the milk, the one destined for experimentation, but nothing else. At least nothing edible. There were a few jars sealed tight with brown and blue gunk, but John wasn't going near them. Take-away it was. He shut the fridge and checked his phone – oh.. three missed calls and a text. He must have put the phone on silent when he got to work. John checked the history and frowned as the name popped up. Molly. They were all from Molly. The text wasn't anything but an address. Why was she…

John drew in a breath. She left him a voicemail, so he quickly dialed in. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she just needed him to cover a shift. Maybe. He clenched his jaw as the message began.

“Hey… John?” She did not sound fine. She sounded scared, “Hey, I don’t want to bother you, but if you’re not doing anything, can you come over? Uhm.. yeah, that’s all, call me? I’ll text you the address, alright?” 

Shit. John checked the time stamp. Half an hour ago was the last call. He dialed Molly back and pulled the phone back to his ear to hear it ring.. and ring.. and ring.. “Fuck!” John snapped as her voicemail picked up, “Fuck...” He repeated as he mashed the end call.

“Molly.” Sherlock spoke, and it wasn't a question.

“Yeah, I missed the call,” He admitted and checked the address again, “We need to go –”

“We?” Sherlock hissed, “No, I don’t have time –”

“Bullshit,” John snapped back, already halfway through putting on his coat, “This isn't up for negotiation, I need to watch you and I need to make sure Molly is alright. You’re coming with me.” He straightened his coat and then grabbed Sherlock’s off the back of the chair, thrusting it back to the omega.

“Or else what?” Sherlock challenged, standing just a bit straighter and using his height to look down on John. The coat was left untouched. For all his manic movements earlier, he was doing a damn good job of playing the prim and proper statue now. Great bloody timing.

“No, Sherlock, this isn't how it works,” John hissed out, pointing to the map, “this... this is horrible, people have died Sherlock, and that is what matters. Not the puzzle. Molly needs our help now, right now, because she is scared and in trouble and you’re going to come with me.”

“John –”

“Sherlock!” No, John was not having any of it now. None of this omega’s stubborn arse. He stared down the idiot of a man, waiting for the next stupid argument to come out of his mouth, but to Sherlock’s credit, he actually took a moment, then nodded.

“On one condition,” he challenged.

“Sh-wha?” John blurted out a furious babbled word before he snapped his mouth shut again and took a moment to breath. In and out, “condition?”

Something to do with the drugs, surely, or maybe more help when he asks for it? Skip work for him? Retrieve milk for him? So many favors popped into John’s head, but Sherlock had a knack for surprising him and he would have never guessed what Sherlock said next.

“You’ll see me through my next heat.”


End file.
